Ghosts That Haunt
by Adderlygirl
Summary: AU / Sequel to Forging a Life. Casey is assigned a foreign female operative to pose as his girlfriend.
1. Chapter 1

I allowed myself to be talked into writing a sequel to _Forging a Life_, though to be honest, big parts of this were already written while I tried to figure out where to end _Forging_. I've now been persuaded to post it here. This is the happily-ever-after version, so you've been forewarned.

On the other hand, it takes exactly 52 weeks to get there.

Adult content. The usual disclaimers about I don't own, don't make any money.

You need to read _Forging a Life_ first, and for those of you who have, forget the last chapter. This substitutes for that.

* * *

**Ghosts That Haunt 1**

This time, Riah stayed home until the bruises were gone.

In the meantime, Casey kept in touch with General Patterson. If she had to be a target for Watson, he wanted assurances that the man was under close surveillance. He also did his homework, carefully examined the man's record, did a deep background check on the upstart captain, and found it hard to believe any man could be that squeaky-clean. He suspected the man's record had been tampered with because not even Bartowski's jacket was that sanitary before the Intersect.

It irritated the hell out of him that he couldn't even find a traffic violation.

It further irritated him that Ellie Bartowski was doing some close surveillance of her own. Every time he turned around, she seemed to be there. She stuck by Riah as if they were Siamese twins, and Casey tolerated it because he was certain she only did so while she tried to determine whether or not he was the one who hurt Riah. As a result, and at Riah's suggestion, he endured an evening playing host to Ellie, her fiancé, her brother, and Walker.

He knew Riah had had Ellie over in his absence, but this was the first time they'd done anything like this together. Riah obsessed over the details to the point Casey finally told her in frustrated exasperation that it was just dinner. That had been after he came downstairs in the early hours of the morning to find her seated at the table with a number of paper wads scattered in front of her. Two non-wadded sheets lay before her. He read over her shoulder, saw they were menus.

"Isn't that about four courses too many?" he asked, reading a seven-course menu that featured standing rib roast, two appetizers, shrimp cocktail, a fancy salad featuring greens he would pretend he'd never heard of, citrus and herb granite, mashed parsnips, roasted asparagus, and a chocolate torte. The other was equally elaborate but had fish for the main course.

"Too much?" she asked.

"Not if you make sure everyone fasts for forty-eight hours prior," he told her and took a chair to her right. He eyed her, wondered what was behind her sudden five-star restaurant urge. "Just fix something like beef bourguignon or pot roast." He liked her boeuf bourguignon, even if he refused to pronounce it the French way as she did.

She rolled her lip between her teeth and chewed it a moment.

It occurred to him that she was compensating for something, or she was feeling insecure. Riah often cooked mass quantities when she was nervous or under stress. There were mornings when he woke up alone and went down to a bakery's worth of things she'd made during the night when she'd been unable to sleep. It made breakfast more interesting, but he did gently suggest she could simply wake him up when she couldn't sleep.

She ran her hands into her loose hair and closed her eyes. "I think I'm channeling Mum."

"Please don't," he said with no inflection. When she opened her eyes, he grinned at her. "I'd rather not have the inevitable argument when your mother makes an appearance."

"She does these dinners," Riah told him. "They're famous. People fight to get invited, but she's very selective about who gets to attend." She shrugged. "I've actually never done this, cooked for more than family—other than when I worked in restaurants." She sighed, rubbed her eyes. "I think I just freaked out a little."

He stood, pulled her to her feet and against him. "It's just dinner, Riah, and as far as Ellie and Bartowski are concerned, it probably is just family. There's no need to impress."

It wasn't hard to persuade her to come back to bed, and on Sunday, she served a scaled back version of the prime rib meal. She kept the roast, perfectly medium-rare, and the parsnips mashed with potatoes and garlic and the asparagus, the salad, and the six-layer chocolate fudge torte.

To his surprise, Casey actually enjoyed the evening—until dessert. Because of Ellie and her fiancé, there was no shop talk, and that was a novelty for Casey. He tried to remember the last time he'd engaged in an entire night of nothing but normal conversation—if he could call talk that included possible honeymoon destinations and the apparent dictatorial authoritarianism of Woodcomb's mother normal.

He commiserated with Ellie, and earned a hard stare from Riah by assuring Ellie that Honey Woodcomb had nothing on Riah's mother. Though he was careful not to name her and potentially expose who Riah really was, he did tell a couple of his better Ariel stories.

As he closed the door behind Ellie and her fiancé, he felt good, knew Ellie was reassured, though he half expected Riah to lay into him. She crossed her arms and asked, "Did my mother really call the cops and insist you were a peeping tom?"

He'd been walking the perimeter of the home she shared with MacKenzie in one of Chicago's more affluent suburbs after Ariel swore she heard a prowler. When the Chicago PD arrived, he remembered, he'd realized he had stupidly left his badge and ID inside. He put his hands on Riah's hips and pulled her close. "Ask Emma, if you don't believe me," he assured her. "She had to vouch for me, though since she was only six, they really didn't want to take her word for it."

Her hands ran over his chest to his shoulders. "You're lucky Emma did vouch for you. At six, she was insufferably contrary."

"Probably explains why she did, then," he told her.

* * *

When Beckman told him Watson had failed to incriminate himself, Casey knew what was coming. He listened as she told him Riah would accompany General Patterson to a political fundraising reception for a senator. Watson, who had served on the senator's staff before entering the Corps, would attend as well.

Casey would pull van duty.

He started to argue, but she told him it was non-negotiable—unless he preferred to stay home and let Walker and the asset do the job. He didn't prefer, so if he couldn't go in with Riah, he intended to be where he could act if she needed him. Keeping in mind what Riah had told him following the mess with Laurance, he told Beckman Riah would have to tell her father the plan. Beckman nodded.

It didn't take Riah long to make the call, based on how quickly V. H. called Casey. He was on the Buy More sales floor when his cell rang.

"You left my daughter where a rapist could find her," Adderly ground out.

Casey would have sighed his frustration, but that would give the man further grounds to torment him. "I did no such thing."

"That's not what Mariah says," V. H. said.

Walking to the back of the store, Casey looked around to see if there was anyone near enough to overhear him. He was just irritated enough to take what could prove to be an ill-advised dig: "Last I heard, you thought I was the rapist."

There was a snort on the other end of the line. "Be thankful she's well beyond the age of consent, Casey."

He considered telling the other man he most certainly was. That, however, would only lead to yet another discussion of how Casey molested V. H.'s daughter, and he wasn't interested in having that discussion again. Why V. H. insisted on labeling sex with Mariah as molestation Casey wasn't sure, but the more he protested, the more V. H. did so. "So you're finally acknowledging that she had the good sense to choose me?"

"I can't say good sense factored into this at all, Casey," the other man said, "but certainly she chose you. I'm assuming some sort of coercion was involved."

Casey snorted. "Is this conversation going anywhere?" Much as he enjoyed baiting Riah's father, he had work to do, and one of the Buy Morons could turn up at any second.

"Diane tells me she intends to use Mariah as bait."

That was the one part of his boss's plan that gave Casey pause. For whatever reason, Watson had gone after Riah. Casey found that infuriating, especially since they had carefully designed the sting at the ball. How it had gone wrong, he wasn't sure.

"Not so much bait," Casey told him, "as trap."

The silence from V. H.'s end was oppressive. "You're clearly a city-boy, Casey," he said. "You have to bait traps. That makes my daughter bait."

"Your daughter isn't bait," Casey growled. "She took him out once already—gave him a shiner and a mild concussion." He let that sink in. Then he added, "And you're the city-boy. Don't think I don't remember you're from Scarborough."

There was an oppressive silence. "I don't want Mariah put in unreasonable jeopardy."

Casey whole-heartedly agreed. He'd tried to convince Riah to turn down the assignment from the moment he realized what she would be asked to do. Walker or someone else could substitute. It wasn't her job, really, and it had the potential to backfire. He knew what her father would do if it went wrong, and Casey didn't want to be the one to sacrifice her to get the man they were after. "I don't, either," he admitted at last.

The silence stretched once more. "Then why use her this way?"

"Because the suspect chose her—her, not the most logical target based on the pattern." After he admitted that, he realized how stupid it sounded.

"She's fragile," her father said.

"She's stronger than you realize." That gave him pause. Why had he said that? She had dispatched Watson pretty damn efficiently, but despite Dreyfus's assessment and her recent strength, Casey knew she could still fall apart if the danger was threatening enough. He just hoped she really could get the job done without getting herself killed—or worse. Casey didn't think she could survive worse.

V. H. grunted, and Casey nearly joined him. After a second, Riah's father said, "I trust you to keep her safe. Just don't make me regret that trust."

Casey assured him it wasn't misplaced. After they had each disconnected, he wondered if he could make good on that.

* * *

Riah chose a dress that looked like something from the movie _Breakfast at Tiffany's_. She wasn't willowy and tall like Audrey Hepburn, but that black, sleeveless sheath of a dress clung in too many of the right places, and whatever she wore underneath it pushed her breasts up in such a way she looked like she might pour out of the top. The deeply scooped neckline and the ruby and diamond pendant that drew the eye to her cleavage made him salivate, which meant it would likely make the night's target salivate.

He didn't like that at all.

To make matters worse, Paul Patterson would escort her that evening, and she was definitely going to make the General drool.

The older man arrived promptly, something else that pissed Casey off since he was fairly certain his former commander had a personal interest in Riah. Casey nearly didn't let her leave with the other man when the General leaned down and kissed Riah's mouth briefly. Casey stopped mid-growl when he realized he was making a sound of protest. Riah had given him an apprehensive look; the General had merely been amused. Perhaps that was why when he kissed Riah himself before letting her walk out of their apartment with her date for the evening, he had kissed her as they had been taught in seduction school. When he lifted his head, Riah had that look he was used to seeing on her face in bed—usually after he had loved her. There was a primitive part of him that especially liked that reaction.

* * *

Casey hated van duty. It was a necessary part of the job, but he hated it. The sensation of being caged, the waiting, the watching, made him restless, but he didn't let it show. One thing his training had done for him was teach him how to wait. It didn't help him like it, but it helped him do it. He would far prefer to be inside the ballroom where Riah and the General worked the crowd. It occurred to him that he seemed to spend a lot of time these days in the van or some other surveillance unit.

As he watched Watson watch Riah, though, Casey once again questioned whether he should have let her do this. He could have talked General Beckman out of it, Patterson, too, but Riah had been determined to follow through with this. Given how Watson had broken his pattern, it was hard to argue with her, and Casey simply hoped the man would move on to a different target since he'd failed with Riah. She, though, was convinced he wouldn't like that she got away, which would make her the perfect victim. It was logical, though Casey wasn't sure anything Watson had done involved logic of any form. As the man circled Riah and Paul Patterson again, Casey weighed thresholds for halting the operation if necessary.

At least she stayed with the General, though that was a particular form of hell for Casey. He would definitely rather be the man escorting her, the man touching her, the man at whom she smiled happily and with whom she shamelessly flirted. He felt the urge to punch his former commander as the man flirted shamelessly right back at her. He glowered at the monitor, and even Walker tried to ignore him and his sour mood.

Bartowski, of course, was simply convinced he loved Riah. That was a good thing, though Casey couldn't help thinking that perhaps he really should put some distance between himself and Riah if watching her with another man was ruining his calm this way. Chuck's happy chatter nearly had him admitting that Riah was simply his cover girlfriend, but that impulse drew Casey up short.

It wasn't that surprising that after this long he might begin to confuse the cover for reality. It wasn't like it didn't happen from time to time, but it had never happened to him. It was one of the reasons they tried to keep missions like this short and sweet. Romantic entanglements between agents were an occupational hazard, and in his and Riah's case, there were more hazards than usual.

He cursed V. H. once more, cursed the man for sending his daughter to him, cursed him for thinking their friendship would protect Riah. If ISI had sent anyone else, he was convinced things would have turned out differently. He watched Riah stand beside Paul Patterson, watched her smile up at him when the General slipped a hand into the small of her back, and he felt again the desire to enter the ballroom and take her from the man.

When this was over, he'd tell Adderly to send her to the Institute early for her pending mandatory training, so Casey could then get some distance, gain some perspective. When she came back, he'd have these impulses under control.

Walker kept giving him odd looks, and he finally figured out it was the pissed off growls emanating from him that did it. He didn't like this, didn't like it at all. Riah was his, but there she was, held against Paul Patterson's side, looking for all the world as if she'd go home with the General that night. She was his, not Watson's, not Patterson's. No one else had a right to her.

Watson made his first approach half an hour later. Bartowski was already bored and playing some electronic game—Casey had stopped keeping up with whatever game system the younger man indulged in—and he backhanded the asset's arm and grunted, "Anything?"

Chuck went into full-flash when he spied Watson's face. Casey waited impatiently for the inevitable info dump. When Bartowski spewed, he tossed his earphones on the console and checked his weapon. Walker asked what he was doing, and he told her—succinctly. "Riah's in danger. I'm going in."

As he fitted an earpiece, Casey considered Bartowski's data dump. Watson had been in the Intersect, and it wasn't pretty. Casey wondered why in hell he hadn't been able to find this information when he dug into Watson's background. The man had links to Fulcrum, according to Bartowski, and the odds-on favorite was that the other man thought she was the Intersect. That meant she was in more danger than he trusted Patterson to protect her from.

Though, truthfully, it was the rest of the information Bartowski spit out that had Casey mentally preparing a proposal to reorganize intelligence gathering and made him do what he was about to do. He was not leaving Riah exposed to that.

Chuck eyed him. "What?" Casey barked.

"Nothing," the asset said. Casey's eyes narrowed, considered what might be going on in Chuck's noggin, because he was dead certain something was—something he wasn't going to like.

He turned to Walker. They exchanged nods, and Casey popped the van door and stepped out, jerked the door closed behind him. He strode inside, and once he was in the ballroom, he looked for Riah. She was talking to Watson, and she didn't look happy. Through his earpiece, it was simply social chatter, but something made her look like she wanted to escape. He didn't stop to talk to anyone; he stalked over to where they stood. Casey saw the man was going to refuse to leave Riah with him. Casey couldn't say that made him sorry. Watson, though, must have seen something in his face, for he relinquished Riah easily.

She frowned as Casey walked her away from the Captain. "John—"she began. By then they had reached a darkened corner, and he cut her off with his mouth.

Riah tasted of bourbon. She kissed him back, and he wished he could simply take her home. He supposed he could tell her he had a thing for Audrey Hepburn. She might believe it, but she wouldn't believe it explained his decision to come inside.

The look she gave him when he lifted his head told him she wanted to ask why, but she didn't. Instead, she smiled widely at him, and he lowered his mouth to hers once more. He might have just blown the evening's mission, but he didn't much care. If questioned, he would claim that what Chuck told him concerned him enough to make him decide he needed to be with her. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered, leaning into him in such a way that it was obvious she didn't mind in the least.

Instead of answering, he kissed her once more. If he was a little more thorough than he ought to be in the circumstances, he didn't much care. She wore that perfume he liked, the one with the gardenias and spice, the one that made him think about finding a convenient broom closet—if no other room was available—and tracing the scent on her skin with his mouth if not his nose. Maybe both. His hands might enjoy the search as well.

Her hands, meanwhile, were far from idle. She stroked over his chest to his shoulder. The other ran around his neck to the back of his head, and he didn't resist the faint pressure there where she had run the fingers of her right hand into his hair. Her lips parted under his as he tugged her closer to his body. _Fuck Watson_, he thought. Riah was his, only his, and he wasn't sharing—not even to trap a rapist. Especially not to trap a vicious, murderous rapist.

"I believe that's my date, Major." Paul Patterson's voice cut in on Casey's thoughts about what Riah might or might not be wearing beneath that black, beaded dress.

"My girlfriend," he returned gruffly.

"You're not supposed to be here, John," the other man chided.

Riah's heavy-lidded look told Casey all he needed to know. "I think Riah should come with me," he said.

She slowly released him then. "John," she said softly, "he's right."

Casey didn't like her apparent defection. "Riah," he said with a rough note in his voice. He wasn't willing to risk her to what Chuck had told him, but the look she gave him said he might have to. She was, after all, nearly as stubborn as he.

"John," she said and leaned into him. "Go away."

Patterson reached for her, and Casey let his former commander draw her away. "John, Watson's going to make his move soon."

He was torn: duty or Riah's safety. He leaned toward the second, especially since he'd failed her once before, had nearly let Kellett kill her. He realized just how compromised that made him. He thought he could justify the unwarranted interference through her father's insistence that she not be put at undue risk. Riah gently removed the General's hand from her arm and said something softly to him that Casey couldn't quite catch. Whatever it was, the other man shrugged and walked away. Casey was left standing in front of her. "You have to go," she said softly. "He's unlikely to approach me with you here."

Casey knew how true that was, but it didn't make him feel any more inclined to do as she said. "Riah, you're in danger, and you are _not_ going to do this."

He hadn't meant to put it anywhere near that bluntly, but he didn't regret it. She gave him a look that told him she knew that, and he felt like twenty kinds of idiot. Of course she knew that. She was the one who had told him about Watson in the first place. "John, it's part of the job." She ran her hands up his chest, smoothed the lapels of his suit. "It's what we do so no one else has to." She leaned up and kissed him. "Better me than some other woman," she whispered. She kissed him once more, and there was a promise there, one Casey had an urge to exploit even as he wanted to contradict her. Before he could, she stepped away from him. "Now go away." She said distinctly, "Agent Walker, restrain him if you have to."

He started after her, furious, but she had turned and walked back to General Patterson. Walker was in his ear: "Well?"

Casey fumed, refused to answer. He was not going back to the van, and just as he was about to tell Walker so, Patterson bent and asked, "Everything okay?" She gave the other man a slight smile and a nod, and then he stepped away, headed toward the bar. Casey kept his eyes on Riah. Within seconds, Watson had sidled up to her once more.

When he approached her before, Watson had kept the conversation on social pleasantries. This time was different. "So which one is it?" he asked Riah, "Major Casey or General Patterson?"

"I beg your pardon?" Casey recognized a dead-on impression of Ariel when she decided to be coldly polite.

"Or do you sleep with both of them?" Watson asked. Casey didn't like the man's tone, let alone the accusation, and he almost went out to pound him to the pulp he deserved to be.

Riah continued to channel her mother. "I fail to see that that's any of your business, Captain."

"I like to know who the competition is."

He watched Riah step back from Watson, and Casey had a brief moment of satisfaction. "You have no competition," Riah said, "primarily because you aren't in the race."

Casey initially thought she should have been a bit more friendly, but then rape was about violence and violation. She wouldn't be an attractive target if she was willing.

"If you'll excuse me," Riah added, and Casey forced himself to remain still when Watson grabbed her by the arm as she began to move away. The bruises he had left on her the month before had taken a while to fade. Casey decided to make sure he was the one who took the man down, and he'd take him down as hard as he possibly could.

"No, I won't excuse you," Watson told her. "You gave me a black eye and a concussion."

Riah stiffened. "I don't take kindly to men who assault me."

Watson jerked her closer. "I didn't assault you . . . yet."

Casey could hear the choked breath Riah sucked in. "And you won't," she replied. He could hear what sounded like genuine fear under her bravado. She tried to remove his hand from her arm, but Watson clamped harder. Even from where Casey stood across the room, he could see the other man's fingers dig into her flesh.

"You won't have the freedom of movement in that dress that you did in the other," Watson told her. "I think I can take the risk. Can you?"

Casey's eyes dropped to the skirt of Riah's dress. It was form-fitting with no slits other than the one in back that barely reached her knees. What she had worn that other night had full skirts that gave her some room to move. Watson was right—unless she chose to ruin the dress.

"May I ask a question?" Riah's voice sounded more normal. Watson nodded. "Would you find me attractive were it not for John's—or Paul's—interest?"

The Captain gave a snorting laugh. "Who said I find you attractive?"

That sent a chill down Casey's spine. Riah paled.

Watson made a disappointed sound. "Look at that," he said. "The General's busy, and he sent the Major away." The man leaned closer to her. "Who'll save you when you can't save yourself?"

Riah sucked in a deep breath. "Who says I can't save myself? I managed before."

The Captain laughed, an unpleasant sound. He dragged Riah toward the ballroom doors, and Casey kept an eye on them.

"Walker, he's making his move," Casey said quietly, moved only when Watson turned his back fully on the corner where he still stood. His partner told him she had them, that Watson was taking Riah to an elevator. Casey motioned for one of the agents Beckman had planted and wondered if Watson had learned nothing. Riah had freely admitted that the confined space of the elevator car had helped her disable him before.

"Floor?" he asked as he raced for the elevator bank, watched the doors close. He sent the other agent to the stairs.

"Twelfth," Walker told him. "I'm leaving Chuck here and coming in."

Casey pushed a couple out of the way to take the open elevator, prevented them from following him inside by holding out his badge and curtly telling them it was government business before he told Walker, "Stay where you are." He punched the button for twelve.

He heard Chuck in his ear next: "He's in room 1225." The kid had obviously hacked the hotel registration system. Casey didn't tell him he already knew that. He'd only asked Walker for the floor in case Watson had another room he intended to use.

"They've arrived," Walker said, and Casey eyed the panel to the right of the elevator doors. He'd heard nothing through Riah's wire, and that worried him. Either Watson was being quiet—and he figured Riah would talk if for no other reason than to let him know she was still alright—or the other man had done something to her already or taken the wire. There was surveillance in Watson's room, but Walker would be blind until they got there.

As a result, Casey stepped right out of the elevator when the doors opened, and he quickly checked the hall both ways. Seeing no one, he headed rapidly toward the room. He kept his eyes on the door plaques that numbered the rooms. He didn't think Watson would waste any time, so Casey picked up the pace, unwilling to have to tell Adderly he'd failed to keep Riah safe, unwilling to accept that he had failed her if it came to that. It didn't help to hear Walker's useless, "Casey, hurry."

He reached the door and breathed in deeply before breaking it in. Casey had no order to kill Watson, and that was the only thing that kept him from doing what he'd done to Larkin at the beginning of his assignment with the Intersect: shoot first and order him to not move second. When he saw Riah flung across the bed, though, the bodice of her dress torn, he almost went with his instinct to kill the other man.

For his part, Watson grinned. Casey's trigger finger twitched, and he barely kept it from squeezing the trigger enough to blast the grin off the man's face. "Step away from her," he said coldly. Riah made a sound, but Casey didn't spare her a glance, kept his eyes glued to Watson. He knew any distraction could be fatal, so he stayed locked on the other man. If anyone was going to die here, Casey intended to make sure it was Watson.

The Captain wiped the smile off his face. "You really don't know what you've gotten yourself into here."

Casey kept his cold mask in place, resisted looking at Riah. "Actually, Watson, you're the one in the dark here. You've been a bad boy, and I'm your punishment."

Watson eyed him. "Your girlfriend's the one who's been bad, Casey," he said. "Pity you don't know who you're fucking."

Casey really wished the bad guys would find a new line of taunt. Watson wasn't the first one who had decided to tell him he didn't know Riah and what she was up to. He didn't dignify Watson's comment, simply continued to stare intently at the man and hold his weapon steady. Like a thousand bad guys before him, the idiot couldn't keep his mouth shut, so Casey's silence paid off.

"I never would have thought you'd fall for a pretty face," the man continued, "though I plan to make it considerably less pretty before I'm finished with her." He lowered his hands. "Like all women, she's a whore, pure and simple, and there's only one way to deal with a whore."

Fury spiked through him, coursed through his veins, but Casey pushed it down, continued to watch Watson and train his weapon on him. He wouldn't engage, he told himself, wouldn't give Watson an opening. According to Bartowski, the man not only worked for Fulcrum but was believed to be responsible for a series of murders that made Jack the Ripper look downright benevolent. Looking at the asshole, he considered putting him down a favor to humanity.

For the most part, Watson apparently only killed women he was paid to kill—the two officers had been exceptions. Casey wondered who had paid the fee for Riah. Watson grinned like the maniac he was. "Okay, we can do this the hard way," he told Casey. "Your whore got down to business last time, which is why I didn't waste any time this go around." He shrugged. "They're less fun this way, but it seemed prudent."

The bullet hit Watson in the knee, where it would put him down but not kill him. Casey was tired of being lectured for killing bastards like Watson. When he was down, Casey followed up with a chest wound that would do enough damage to keep the man from moving much but not kill him outright. When the Captain was still but far from quiet, the other agent finally turned up. Casey told him to search Watson. Casey knelt on the bed beside Riah. She was out cold, and he decided that was a small mercy.

Walker and Bartowski stormed through the door. He let Walker deal with the cleanup while he smoothed Riah's torn bodice over her chest, hiding the black corset thing that hiked up her breasts. He felt for a pulse, watched her, and then rummaged in his pocket for the phone that buzzed there. Patterson was on the other end, and Casey curtly told him they had Watson and provided the room number when the General asked.

A medic entered. The man had been standing by, and Casey watched the man check Riah and then begin searching the room for whatever Watson had given her. The other agent found a slim aerosol canister in one of Watson's pockets. Casey took it, realized the asshole had used a knockout spray, probably as soon as the elevator doors closed. The medic found an empty syringe in the trash and vial of a well-known sedative. The agent finished his search of Watson's pockets, but he found no poisons or other drugs. After the medic checked the syringe, Casey was assured she'd be fine when she woke up. He thanked the man.

The cleaners arrived about the same time Patterson did. "Your pretty little girl okay?" Patterson asked as he watched them lift Watson onto a gurney. Casey was glad to see that they didn't bother being even remotely gentle. He gave Patterson an affirmative nod.

When they removed Watson, Walker took Bartowski and told Casey they'd meet him at Castle. He shed his jacket, lifted Riah to wrap it around her. Paul Patterson watched. "So what happened?"

"He dragged her out and drugged her," Casey said tersely.

"I want him," Patterson said. "He's going before a court-martial for the rapes and murders."

"You'll have to get in line," Casey told him.

Patterson snorted. "National security."

"Dark hole, no exit—and he's going to tell us about his other bosses," Casey promised.

He gathered Riah up and carried her down. Patterson went with them, and in the elevator, he asked Casey, "Would you like me to take her home, keep an eye on her, while you're debriefed?"

Casey shook his head.

* * *

At Castle, he put Riah in one of the bunks and joined Walker and Bartowski. Watson, Walker told him, was in a hospital prison unit. Casey wished they'd skipped the hospital part. It didn't take them long to report, and he was grimly amused that Beckman failed to reprimand him for shooting Watson. He let Walker and Bartowski go, and then he called Adderly.

"She's fine," he told her father before the man could start.

"Then where is she?"

Under other circumstances, Casey might have taken the opportunity yawning before him. Instead, he told V. H., "She's sleeping off the sedative Watson gave her." He ran through the evening's events for the other man. "I'll have her call you tomorrow," Casey finished.

"See that you do," V. H. said before he hung up.

Instead of moving her again, Casey decided to leave her where she was. He took his suit jacket from her, hung it up. He slipped her shoes off and then removed her necklace and the matching earrings before he unzipped her ruined dress and slid it off her. The leather corset thing underneath molded her from her breasts to the tops of her thighs. Her breasts were clearly visible though the black lace cups. He considered leaving it on her until she could enjoy letting him remove it, but it didn't look particularly comfortable, so he undid whatever the silver things were that held it closed in front—they weren't snaps, nor were they hooks and eyes, exactly. They looked a little like shirt studs gone wrong. He found a clean t-shirt in his locker and put it on her before he removed her stockings and put her beneath the sheet and blanket. He returned to his locker, found a pair of sweat pants and another t-shirt, changed, and considered whether the narrow cot would hold both of them. In the end, he pushed a second cot next to hers.

In the morning, he thought, he'd have to have Walker go get her some clothes.

* * *

Other than the bruises on her arm, Riah was none the worse for wear when the sedative wore off. She was nauseous, though, told him certain sedatives tended to do that to her. She rolled over, put her head on his shoulder, and asked what happened to Watson. When he told her he'd shot him, she kissed him thoroughly. "Good."

Casey considered shooting him again just to see how she might reward him.

He ran a hand over her waist. "What happened after you left the ballroom?"

She shuddered, moved a little closer to him. "The second the elevator doors closed, he sprayed something in my face." Riah shrugged. "I really don't remember anything after that."

He held her, considered carefully what he wanted to say. In the end, he should have held his peace or considered different words: "You're never doing that again."

Riah pushed back so she could see his face. "Of course I am," she said, and he heard a slightly angry note underneath. "Not exactly that, maybe, but it's my job, John."

"You could have been killed," he said tersely, and he watched her eyes sharpen.

"As I told my mother once, I could be killed walking to my car. For that matter, I could be killed getting the mail, shopping, or even eating."

All of those were true, he knew, but it didn't change how he felt. "Alright, you could be murdered." Before she could respond, he reminded her, "Watson had rape in mind before he killed you, Riah. You are not taking that kind of risk ever again."

Her jaw was tightly clenched, and her eyes sparked. "You and I both know I will, John," she said, and while she tried a conciliatory tone, it just didn't come out that way. "Women face greater risk in this work, true," she conceded tightly, "but that's no reason to simply fold, take a nice, safe desk job."

He began to have a lot of sympathy for her father's point of view in that moment. V. H. wanted her safe, and so did Casey. He wasn't always going to be there to make sure she survived, and he wasn't stupid enough to believe he'd always be able to save her if he was there. "_You_ don't have to do this."

"I'll remind you of that when it's your turn," she bit out. She slapped her hand against his chest before he could tell her not to be a moron. "One of these days, John," she said between her teeth, "you'll come home, back from an assignment or a deployment, shot to hell, and I reserve the right to tell you that _you_ don't have to do this."

Casey was about to tell her he did have to do it, but he stopped cold. He felt something strange as he returned her angry look.

He didn't come home to her—he came home. Period. This wasn't permanent. It couldn't be permanent. Permanent didn't work in their world.

Hell, home wasn't even in Los Angeles.

This was a job. She was an assignment, and he needed to remember that.

Something shifted in her face, and she paled. She pushed against him, slid off her cot and rushed away.

Casey should go after her, he knew. Instead, he lay there and thought about all the many reasons he should never talk to women.

By the time Walker turned up with breakfast and clean clothes for Riah, the two of them sat at opposite ends of the conference table doing their best to ignore one another. Casey wrote his report and answered e-mail. Riah, after calling her father and reassuring him she was none the worse for wear, did the same using her BlackBerry. He could have offered her a laptop, but that would entail talking to her.

She disappeared to shower and get dressed after eating the breakfast sandwich his partner brought.

Walker slid into a chair, and Casey finally looked up. "You two seemed a little tense."

Casey grunted, had no intention of discussing this with Walker, especially when she seemed determined to channel Bartowski.

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine," he told her, though it irritated him to say even that much. Still, despite the fact Walker was almost as bad about prying as Bartowski sometimes, she often stood down with less information.

Walker eyed him speculatively. "You fought."

Casey's jaw went rigid, and he dropped his eyes to his laptop.

"A little advice, Major."

He gave her a hard look. Given the state of Walker's personal life, he wasn't sure what advice she could offer that would be worth the effort.

"Never tell a woman with the training to kill you that she isn't capable of doing the job."

For a guess, it was a damned good one—unless she'd run the surveillance feeds before coming downstairs. Then he remembered what he'd told Riah before she left him in the dark corner of the ballroom. "I didn't say she wasn't capable."

_And that's another reason I should never talk to women_, he thought, as amusement slid into Walker's eyes. It irritated him that he had essentially confirmed the gist of what she said.

"You implied it," she told him. She leaned forward, crossed her arms on the cold, steel table. "Or did you say something worse to her this morning?"

Casey attempted deflection by asking if she'd checked on Watson. It didn't matter what Walker answered since he'd already done so, but it got her off his personal life.

* * *

He spent most of the day wondering if the silent treatment would hold when he and Riah went home. By the end of the day, he was irritated to realize he really had questioned her ability. Objectively, she didn't have the best track record, but she had undeniable skills. Watson had cheated, true, but she had taken the man down once. There was a good chance she could have done so a second time.

As a result, he had apologizing to do.

Most people thought he never did. It wasn't true, but it was true he didn't do it well. He wasn't often all that sincere when he had to do it, but this time he needed to be sincere. It didn't help that a florist delivered pink roses to Riah in the early afternoon. Casey was certain they'd come from Paul Patterson when that amused little smile curled her lips as she read the card.

Long after she went back upstairs, he snagged it, read the message: _I'm pleased you're fine. Thank you for what you did. _He gritted his teeth over the next line, felt the card crumple as he tried to find his calm: _Ditch young John and run away with me._

"I won't, you know," he heard her say.

She stood on the landing when he shot a look at her. He watched her come slowly down the stairs. She smiled slightly and tugged the card from his fingers. She read it again, and then she met his eyes. "I suspect he knew you'd read that."

"He likes you," he said gruffly.

"And I like him." She returned his gaze. "I do my job, John, just as you do yours. You know as well as I do that as long as it is my job, I'll do what's asked of me. Neither you nor my father get to decide where the lines of duty are."

He nearly retorted that as the director general, her father certainly did get to determine the boundaries of her job, but since she was giving him an out of sorts, he remained silent. She rewarded him by rising up to kiss him. He slid his arms around her, and then, purely in the interests of maintaining friendly relations, he gave her a soft, "Understood."

It was gratifying that she recognized the _I'm sorry_ he really meant and pulled him down for a more thorough kiss. He momentarily weighed the merits of the couch or the bedroom for the make-up sex he was pretty sure she was about to give him. As her kiss shifted, though, he revised that. Her hands worked at his clothes, and she apparently was more dexterous since she was making better progress than he.

A thought occurred to him, and he ground against her.

"If you're going to drive," he growled in her ear, "put that black thing you were wearing last night back on." As an added incentive, he ran a hand under her shirt hem and down inside the waistband of her jeans.

Her breath caught next to his ear, and she breathed, "Your t-shirt?"

Casey couldn't stop the amused snort. He undid the button of her jeans. "Yeah, because you swimming in cotton is all kinds of sexy," he deadpanned with a sarcastic edge before he caught her mouth.

"Oh," she moaned as he broke the kiss and his fingers found her. "You mean the Gaultier."

Casey chose to deliberately misunderstand her. "Not interested in goats," he told her, running one of his hands up to cup her breast, "but that black leather with the scraps of lace is certainly inspiring."

Riah slid her hands slowly off him and stepped back. He let her go. Her smile was his only warning. "I bought the leather and lace panties that go with it."

She hadn't been wearing those the night before. He knew she'd only worn black lace. "What do those look like?" he asked, and he realized he sounded like he'd run ten miles flat-out.

Her smile was pure invitation. "Come find out." She headed back toward the stairs, looked over her shoulder. "Maybe you should give me a few minutes."

"One," he agreed. One of her brows shot up. "Two maximum."

_Delayed gratification_, he reminded himself, pictured that corset and wondered where she got it. He'd paid a visit to La Perla, intent on replacing the panties he'd destroyed, and while he'd seen a number of bustiers and things similar to what she'd worn the night before, he hadn't seen that. He shot a look at his watch, decided to split the difference at a minute and a half.

When he stepped inside their bedroom, she looked like she couldn't decide whether to cover herself or run. "Just don't expect whips and chains," she said. The combination of that suggestion and the sight of her in that corset above what she had claimed were panties had him considering a number of possibilities. Fortunately, he checked the impulse to tell her he could supply the chains when he caught the edge of nervous fear on her face.

_Edmonton_, he thought. Whips and chains had been involved there, and not in a pleasant way. He wondered that she had the starch to even make that crack.

Casey walked toward her, slid his hands over the leather encasing her waist. It looked sleekly smooth, but there was a faint texture to it, and it was surprisingly cool under his fingers. He liked the way it looked on her, the way it pushed her breasts up and drew attention to the curve of hip despite covering most of that curve. He slid one of his hands up and over the lace that skimmed her breasts. "Where do you buy this stuff?" he asked. He hadn't meant to ask that out loud.

She went a becoming deep pink. "There's a place," and her breath hitched as he turned her a bit more, leaned her back into his chest, "Rodeo Drive."

"La Perla," he said softly next to her ear and then pressed his mouth below it. He licked at her skin, then bit very gently down. Her head fell back against him. She nodded, and Casey couldn't resist asking, "Have you always worn obscene underwear?" He nipped his way down her throat while he waited for her answer.

His hands slid down, found the thin strip of skin between the bottom of the corset and the top of the matching panties. His fingers slipped inside, noticed the material barely covered the first phalanges of his fingers before he found her.

"No," she breathed, and that breath hitched before she shuddered as Casey slid one long finger further, slipped it inside her.

"Take me shopping with you," he said against her shoulder.

That made her laugh, but it ended in a moan as he moved his finger and stroked his other hand back up to her breast. "Beautiful," he murmured against her cheek, "so beautiful."

To his surprise, she went rigid at his words. Casey was about to ask her what was wrong when he felt the tension go out of her. She turned her head and met his mouth. He kissed over her cheek toward her ear, pushed her ponytail over her shoulder and kissed around to her nape. She moaned. He'd discovered some time ago what his mouth on that part of her did to her, but he rarely exploited it.

He turned her again so that her right side was toward him. One hand toyed with one of the front closures, and the other fingered the knotted bow at her bottom. "Which way should I open it?" he asked, his mouth once more on her skin. When he had kissed to the ball of her shoulder, he made a deep, soft sort of growl and added, "Faster to open the front," and his teeth grazed her shoulder, "but might be more fun to unlace you."

Her breathing shallowed, and Casey kissed down her arm. He knelt and opened his mouth on the spot just below her hip where the leather ended. He dropped his hand from her stomach to her ankle and lightly traced the round of bone on its inside before he lightly ran his fingers up the inside of her leg. It trembled a second beneath his touch, and her hand slid into his hair. He kissed along the lower edge of the leather strap that held her panties in place.

"I hate to break it to you," he said softly against her skin, "but these don't exactly qualify as panties."

"They don't?" she breathed as his fingers stroked over the scrap of lace that covered her.

"No," he said and curled his fingers inside the top of them. "Riah, they don't even really cover you."

She sucked in a breath that didn't sound as though it was nearly as deep as it needed to be. "That's why I didn't wear them."

He turned her again, his still tangled in the laces in the back. He kissed along the line of the not-panties, and stroked his free hand toward her opposite hip as he went. He pushed his fingers under the waistband and then over her bottom and down her legs. The panties dropped to her ankles, and Casey's tongue ran over her.

After he raised one foot and then the other to remove them completely, he slid up her body and kissed her breathless. "I thought you were driving," he said against her mouth.

"I don't think I have a license for this," she breathed.

His fingers sorted through the corset's laces, learned the knot and untangled it while he considered his reply. "Practice," he assured her. "You just need a few trial laps."

"Show me," she whispered.

There were many things he could show her, he thought, but it might be more fun to let her discover them herself. He whispered for her to take his clothes off, and he kissed her while her hands moved to do so. His fingers slowly drew the ends of her laces free while she unfastened his clothes, and then her hands stalled. He lifted his mouth from hers and studied her. "Not finished," he told her and then leaned in and stole her breath.

Her fingers went back to work, pushed fabric from him and then started kissing over his exposed skin. Casey's eyes closed, and his fingers stilled as she licked and nipped at his skin. Her hands glided over him, and he considered taking control from her again when her hands hesitated and her mouth stilled. "I'd rather you drove," she said against his throat, and then she did as he had done, bit gently with her teeth a moment before she traced the bite with her tongue.

One of his hands came around and caught her chin, tipped her face so he could plunder her mouth. "Can't always be a passenger, Riah," he said against her lips.

"Need a learner's permit," she breathed.

He snorted. "Intermediate, maybe," he conceded, but she took no offense.

After a moment, she whispered, "What do you want me to do?"

There was a kind of license in that question, and he considered it carefully. She was a little skittish, and he didn't need to make her balk completely. He let his mouth trace down to where the edge of the corset's lace cups cradled her. "For now, Riah, just touch me."

Apparently, she found that easy, until his mouth closed over the lace covering her tight nipple. Her hands faltered then clutched at him. He sucked at her nipple and continued to draw the laces from their holes, but then one stuck. He released her breast and turned her. She'd gone stiff, and it belatedly occurred to him that when he turned her away from him she might think he didn't like what she had been doing. He bent and sucked at her nape, and when he felt her relax, he murmured, "The only problem with this thing is that it takes too damn long to get it off this way."

Riah made a kind of strangled giggle at that. "I _knew_ you were impatient unwrapping your presents."

He grinned against her skin, remembered that morning in Chicago when she had first made that accusation. "And I told you I planned to take my time over unwrapping you." He hadn't planned to take this much time, though, so he tugged at the laces again. "The key," he told her softly, "is delayed gratification."

"When do I get the gratification part?" she breathed as he skated his knuckles on her exposed spine.

A laugh rumbled out of him. "Later." The lace cleared the last hole, and he put a hand on her stomach to hold the leather in place a moment longer. He used the same hand to pull her against him so that her skin warmed his, and then Casey slid the corset away from her body. He nearly amended his answer to _now_ as he looked down at her.

"Beautiful," he repeated, and once again, Riah froze in his arms.

Her breathing rasped, and she pulled against his arms. Casey reflexively tightened them, and she struggled harder. "Riah?"

She didn't say a word, simply struggled while she fought for breath. He let her go, but before Casey could say anything, she hunched, wrapped her arms around her, and panted, "He said that." He stared at her back, at the scars that crossed her flesh. "He said I was beautiful, and he . . . touched me." The last was said so faintly Casey could barely hear her.

He was about to demand who, but it sank in. The bastard in Edmonton. He'd read the reports, had even been reminded of it when he entered their room.

Her face was pale when she glanced back at him. Her "sorry" was almost too soft to hear.

Looking at her profile, Casey decided he wasn't letting this into their bedroom. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

She blinked. She drew a deep breath as she studied him, and then she nodded.

Slowly, he reached out, drew her back where she had been and slowly slid his arms around her. He waited for her to relax, and then he said, "I won't hurt you, Riah." He leaned in to kiss her cheek. "I promise I won't hurt you."

"I know," she said. "I just . . . when you said . . . ."

"You are, you know," he told her, but he didn't use the word this time. He considered how jumpy she had been when she first moved in, how she did better if she knew what to expect. "You can tell me no," he told her, "and I'll respect that." He waited for her nod. "This is what I want," and he dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. "I want to bend you over the edge of the bed so that you lie on your stomach." She nodded. They had stayed primarily with positions that had them facing one another, he realized, though it hadn't been a conscious choice on his part. The closest they had come to this was that morning he'd learned how sensitive the back of her neck was. "I want to take you from behind," he told her. She tensed a little, but nothing like she had before. "Can you let me do that?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

He exploited her body's responses to him, opened his mouth on her nape and slid a hand down her stomach and fingers through the curls that covered her. "If you ask, I'll stop," he told her. "All you have to do is ask." She looked back at him, and he met her eyes. "Or say no now," he offered. "There are other things we can do instead."

"Okay," she breathed.

To be absolutely sure, he asked, "Okay what?"

They stood next to the bed, faced it, and she asked, "How does this work?"

Casey grinned. He told her what to do, and she bent forward, lay down and he moved behind her, pushed her feet a little further apart as he kissed slowly down her spine. She was tense at first, but she slowly relaxed as his hands ran over her. When he kissed back up, he put a little weight on her and slid an arm under and around her, lifted her a little. He stroked her with his other hand, and when she gasped, he asked, "Ready?"

She nodded, and he eased his hand out from under her and over her hip and then positioned himself. "You sure?"

"Yes," she breathed, and he slid inside.

Riah moaned as he moved, and he shifted his hips a little. Her back arched. Words tumbled out of her, and Casey got a shock. They didn't talk a lot during sex, but the suggestions coming out of her mouth stunned him. She told him what to do in some of the crudest terms he'd ever heard. "I knew you should drive," he told her as he thrust again, and she screamed his name. He was ready to scream hers a moment or so later when she shoved back into him, and he came harder than he could remember.

He knew he was crushing her, knew he should move, but damned if he could. He felt her raise her head and turn it toward him. Her mouth was at his ear. "What other ideas do you have," she breathed and then traced the ridges of his ear with the tip of her tongue.

"None I'll be able to do anything about for a while," he told her. "Maybe you could think of something."

She could, as it turned out, and Casey was happy to let her do the thinking—the doing, too.

He took her to dinner at the Italian place he'd taken her once before, and while they waited for their food, he pulled her closer on the bench and whispered in her ear, "The first time I brought you here and you tasted your pasta," he paused to kiss her throat, "you looked like you do after sex."

Riah turned her head, met his mouth, and he wondered how upset she would be if they just left without eating.

He was about to ask when a female voice said, "Hello, Johnny. New toy?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Ghosts That Haunt—2**

"Hello, Johnny. New toy?"

That hint of a sneer beneath what on the surface appeared to be nothing more than an honest query was all too familiar, and Casey sincerely wished he wasn't really hearing it. He ended the kiss with Riah, but not before he pressed a little more fervently against her mouth. This would not go well at all, and he was once more going to have to admit something to Riah he would really rather not. If he was very lucky, she didn't know, which would buy him time to explain. If he weren't so lucky, well, he was going to have a lot more explaining to do, and the specter of Riah's father and what he might contribute to the conversation didn't bear thinking about.

There was a scrape of a chair, and Casey looked across the table at the redhead wiggling her way into the seat. Pale, sea-colored eyes gave him an amused look. She was well-aware, obviously, what she interrupted. "I don't believe we've met," she said, her eyes shifting to Riah. The woman waited for Riah to make the first introduction, he noticed, or, perhaps, she expected him to do the honors.

Riah elected to remain silent, and Casey began to wonder if he had a front row seat at a massive train wreck. Carina Miller could demonstrate the worst of all female attributes in one package and not even lift a single, manicured finger. Riah, he reflected, generally kept her behavior polite and her temper in check, but after the whole Val episode, he wondered if she would make an exception this time. That might depend on whether or not she knew about Prague.

Body armor might not have been a bad idea.

Carina leaned in, folded her arms on the table, but before she could start, the waiter arrived and asked, "May I bring you a menu?"

Riah cut in before Carina could answer. "She's not joining us."

In other circumstances, Casey might have been amused by the steely edge in her voice.

The waiter nodded and left them.

"It does speak," Carina drawled. She looked over and met Casey's eyes. She lifted her brows. "Lose her, Johnny. We've got business to discuss."

"Business hours are over," he said tightly. If the DEA needed him, Beckman would have notified him. In the absence of a call or other orders, he'd assume Carina was simply making trouble. It was, after all, what she did best.

Besides, her go-to partner was usually Walker if they were in the same locale.

"Send ISI packing, Johnny," Carina bit out. "I really do need to talk to you."

It was obvious she knew who Riah was, he noted. Casey sat back, shook his head. Carina's eyes narrowed. Then she turned to Riah.

"This is none of your business, Marla."

"If you say so," Riah said coolly before she tacked on, "Karen, I believe?"

That set Carina back, and Casey decided the entertainment might be worth the later pain.

"This one has claws, Johnny," Carina said tightly. "Well done." He ground his teeth as her face went as innocent as she could make it, which wasn't much, before she added the inevitable taunt, "But then you like that."

He was afraid to look at Riah.

Carina gave a feline smile, the sort that followed swallowing the proverbial canary. "Johnny and I go way back."

"I know who you are," Riah told her quietly.

"Is that right?" Carina asked.

Riah's eyes did a sweep. "Red hair, blue eyes, just under six feet, can't stay focused on the job, and attitude to spare—Carina Miller, DEA."

Her tone of voice indicated she was bored, but her words proved inflammatory, and as he looked at her, he was pretty certain she'd known they would be. He shouldn't have been surprised by that, he supposed, but he considered leaning over and asking Riah to let go of the gun holstered in the small of his back. She'd slipped her hand there when Carina first interrupted them. He knew Carina well enough to know she was about to escalate, not that he could necessarily blame her after what Riah had just said, but he'd really rather not have to deal with clean up if Riah shot her, not to mention having to deal with an obviously pissed off and armed woman.

Carina responded in kind. "Blonde, blue-eyed, five-five, can't do anything right—Mariah Adderly, ISI, if I'm not mistaken."

Riah's lips twitched. "I am Mariah," she returned cheerfully, but Casey could tell that wasn't how she really felt. It was in the eyes, the tightness of her jawline.

Casey's suspicions deepened. They had spoken once about what happened between her father and Galina Vian, but she had never said a word about Casey's parallel situation with Carina. Prague had had a long life, helped along by the photographs and boosted a bit longer by the one Walker had taken the year before. The last photo had had a limited release, so to speak, but the story went around. He knew the Prague episode had made the rounds of several agencies, not all of which were American. It was entirely possible Riah not only knew the story but had seen the pictures. At least this time he hadn't known her when that happened, so she couldn't hold it against him.

Her hand slipped from the butt of his holstered Smith & Wesson. She curved it over his forearm and looked across the table at Carina. Apparently, she'd made whatever point she'd wanted, and she reverted to cool politeness. "If you will excuse me a moment, you can talk about whatever it is that brought you here without me." She looked up at Casey and smiled before she slid out of the booth and made her way to the restrooms.

"What?" he barked as soon as Riah was out of earshot.

"Really, Johnny, is that any way to say hello to an old friend?" Carina's voice purred, and it left him cold.

"We're not friends," he reminded her.

"I've got a job on, and I need you and Sarah." She leaned across the table to add, "Leave your plaything at home."

His eyes narrowed, "Official channels, Carina. You know as well as I do that I'm here on assignment—and your job isn't it."

"Adderly's daughter isn't it, either," she added. "Still have problems keeping it in your pants around a woman, Casey?"

His teeth ground, but he held his tongue. She knew as well as he did that her accusation was false despite the one slip he had made with her. Well, two, and having to acknowledge that made his temper tick up a couple more notches. He decided he'd engaged all he intended.

"Fine." She pouted. "I'll go through General Beckman." When he remained unmoved, she sat up. "Expect a call."

As she left, she made sure she bumped Riah hard as she passed her. When Riah slid back into her seat, he met her gaze and waited. She wore a tiny smile.

"What?" he said without the animosity he'd used when he asked Carina the same thing.

"Nothing," she said and neatly tried to change the subject.

He gave her a glare he normally used on Bartowski. She held her hand up, and he grinned when she showed him Carina's ID and badge. She shrugged. "Really," she said, "if you're going to bump into someone like that, it's all too easy to pick your pocket—purse in this case."

He snatched the ID case from her, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. On the one hand, that particular skill could come in handy at some point. On the other, Carina would go ballistic when she realized what Riah had done. He'd get Walker to return it.

Riah was unrepentant. "I nearly took her gun."

Casey knew he wasn't off the hook, knew Riah wouldn't let that go that easily, and as dinner passed with pleasant though meaningless conversation, he felt himself grow more tense, waited for her to start, because he was dead-certain she would. By the time they arrived home, he was ready to confess to just about anything to get it over with.

That just pissed him off.

It especially pissed him off that Riah acted like nothing had happened, as though no one had interrupted their dinner. Only that wasn't true, he thought, as he brushed his teeth. She'd been a lot more friendly before Carina turned up.

She wore a nightgown when he returned to their bedroom. Given that neither of them slept in clothes, for the most part, that was telling in itself. Then he realized it was a nightgown, not her usual boxers and skimpy shirt, and he wondered what she intended.

It was quite a nightgown. He'd liked the corset, but this was pretty good as well. It was low-cut, skimmed her body closely before it ended just below her hips, and he could see right through the black fabric. God bless her, she wasn't wearing underwear.

One of her eyebrows shot up, but she didn't say a word, simply gathered her discarded clothes and walked toward the closet where she pitched them in the hamper. When she walked back in, she stood directly in front of him and asked, "Is that what you like, John? Tall, skinny, no boobs and big hips?"

He nearly laughed at the description, apt though it was. Figuring he was about to lose a hand, he stretched one out anyway, curved his fingers under one of her breasts. "No," he told her, "I prefer curves on a woman." Since she wasn't objecting, he stepped closer, said what he was certain she wanted to hear: "Yours, to be exact."

Her hands came to rest on his waist, slid up his chest. "Right answer," she told him softly.

Casey slid his hands to her waist and pulled her against him. "I suppose I need to explain."

"No," she told him. "I know the story—saw the pictures, too."

Surely her father hadn't shown them to her? Casey dismissed that thought almost immediately; then he realized it was entirely possible they had been in his dossier at ISI, which she had admitted reading before she arrived.

"You're no saint, John," she continued, "and I knew that before I got here. Your past is your past. You can tell me or not. Your choice."

Not sure which answer she wanted, he asked, "Do you want me to tell you?"

The tip of her tongue ran along her upper lip a moment, and his eyes followed that bit of pink flesh. "No," she said quietly. "I don't think I do."

There had to be a trap waiting to spring, he thought. There was no way she was going to let this go this easily. He hadn't imagined her own cattiness with Carina, and her description of the woman as titless and big-hipped spoke volumes. There wasn't a woman alive who wouldn't use this to her advantage, yet as he looked down at her, she appeared content to let it go with that. If he were smart, he'd let it go as well, but if Carina had been serious and if he really was going to have to lend a hand with whatever had brought her back to Los Angeles, he wanted to know for certain that Riah wasn't going to gut him.

Her lips twitched, and one hand stroked over his shoulder. She answered his unasked question. "Isobel Gerrard showed them to me."

_Izzie_. He might have known, he thought fondly. "I didn't know the two of you were acquainted."

All of a sudden, there was a whole new trap yawning before him.

Someday he really would learn _not_ to talk to women.

Riah rubbed her body against his. "Mrs. Gerrard and I are acquainted," she told him, tipped her head back to meet his gaze. "She scares the hell out of me, but we have met."

Casey laughed at that. Izzie could be scary as hell, it was true. Even Casey had a qualm or two when it came to dealing with the woman. It was telling, though, that Riah called her Mrs. Gerrard.

"Last I heard," he said, "Izzie's retired."

Riah's brows shot up at the diminutive, and he had an _uh-oh_ moment. "She is, indeed," was all Riah said.

"We through here?" he asked.

A smile spread across Riah's face. "Not by a long shot," she assured him.

Casey took that as his cue, bent and kissed her.

* * *

First thing in the morning, he caught Walker, handed off Carina's ID and badge with a "Don't ask."

He should have known she would. She gave him a shit-eating grin and said, "Do I want to know how you got this?" She leaned across the counter of Orange Orange and added, "Were there pictures?"

His terse, "Riah picked her pocket," had her brows shooting up. Within moments, Walker got the story out of him.

At least she agreed to get the slim wallet back to Carina.]

* * *

Around mid-morning, Riah walked through the doors to the storeroom where Casey loaded a cart to take merchandise to the Buy More floor. He would have welcomed the interruption had he not seen her grim expression. "Carina Miller is out front asking for you."

_Round two_, was his first thought. He'd managed to get off lightly with round one, but he really didn't care to face a second. He'd not heard from Beckman, so he could, in good conscience, say no to whatever the redhead wanted. He grunted. "I'm surprised she didn't follow you back."

He noticed Riah made at least a small attempt to control the smirking little grin that budded. "I called Morgan's attention to her."

Casey snorted. Then, he realized Bartowski must have told Riah about Carina and his little buddy's obsession with her. "Give me a minute."

As he watched her go, he felt his phone vibrate. He fished it out, saw it was General Beckman, and answered it. With any luck, he would soon be far away from the redhead's mess.

Sadly, he couldn't get that lucky.

"Carina Miller, I understand, has made contact with you," the General said briskly. "Provide support, but offer no more assistance than is completely necessary."

"Understood," he bit out.

"Bring Ms. Miller, Agent Walker, and Mr. Bartowski to Castle for a briefing." He thought he heard a small sigh. "Find a way to bring Miss Adderly."

"Ma'am?" He couldn't see any possible reason for including Riah in one of Carina's clusterfucks. And it would be a clusterfuck. Not a bit of it would go according to any agreed upon plan, he knew.

"This involves the Canadians, but we'll need a bit of subterfuge. Carina is determined not to let the Canadians in on this, but Miss Adderly has connections to the case. Take Mariah to Orange Orange with you. Leave her upstairs until I tell you otherwise."

He probably should have asked more questions, he thought as he entered the store's sales floor. Riah was at the Nerd Herd desk with a customer, and Walker and Bartowski stood talking to Carina. There was no sign of the Bearded Wonder, and Casey wondered how they had managed to get rid of Grimes.

"Like I said, Johnny," Carina began without preamble, "I need you."

"What mess do you need us to clean up this time?" he asked.

"Drug sting," Walker added.

It mollified Casey that Walker seemed as unenthusiastic as he did. "Not our job," Casey said, and he made sure that came out surly as hell.

"General Beckman is expecting us," Carina said and put a hand on his back.

"Move it, or I cut it off," he growled softly. She complied, though she took the opportunity to turn it into a caress. He gritted his teeth. "You and Walker take Bartowski to Castle. I'll follow."

Riah was free when he crossed to her and leaned down. She looked over his shoulder and narrowed her eyes. He figured Carina was watching and wondered why Riah was acting this way. It wasn't like her. "Riah," he growled, and she returned her attention to him. "We're going to have to go to Castle for a while. Bartowski, Walker and Carina are going over now; I'll follow in a little bit. I need you to leave with me as if we were going on break together."

She nodded told him she'd find someone to take over the desk for her. He watched her search, wondered if she'd manage to find anyone, and waited impatiently until she reappeared with Skip Johnson in tow. Casey looped an arm over her shoulder, and they left the store.

When they were outside, Casey dropped his arm. "Can you hang tight in the Orange Orange?"

She shot him a look. "I suppose so," she said.

He sighed. "Carina's missions never go according to plan. She's often running a secondary game no one else knows, and she's too prone to improvising on the spot. Beckman plans to deal you in, which is good because I like having someone who can be trusted to do what needs to be done."

Surprise flashed across her face, which irritated Casey a little, but then she nodded. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I doubt DEA's going to let me play in her sandbox."

Casey knew better, but he didn't tell Riah that.

The others were waiting in the yogurt shop when they arrived. "Why'd you bring ISI?" Carina demanded.

Before he could come up with an answer, Riah supplied one. "We always go on our breaks together," Riah replied. "It would have looked suspicious if I hadn't walked out with him." She dropped into a seat at one of the tables and fished a paperback out of her bag. She made a shooing motion with her hands. He didn't dare look at Carina and see how she reacted to that gesture.

They filed downstairs where Beckman was already connected. She ran through a few things about interagency cooperation, made sure she gave a meaningful glare at Casey and at Carina, and then got down to business, in a manner of speaking. "I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that given the players and the nature of this particular operation that it would be of benefit to include Miss Adderly." She eyed them through the monitor. "Major Casey, please invite Mariah to join us."

As he climbed the stairs, he could hear Carina's protests, listened as she changed tack at least twice when the General sternly overrode her protests. He stepped out of the access to Castle and motioned for Riah to join him.

General Beckman waited as they descended the steps. Mariah slid into the seat Casey held for her, and he sat next to her. "Miss Adderly," the General said, "Carina was about to brief the team on her assignment. Your assistance with this matter is vital."

"One of my fellow agents and I infiltrated a drug smuggling operation in Canada," Carina began. "They bring drugs from South America into Halifax and from Asia into Vancouver. From there they are primarily distributed to the United States." Her pale eyes studied Riah. "The mastermind is, apparently, an old friend of yours."

From her tone and the way she slid her eyes to him, Carina expected Casey to take exception to her insinuation. He knew that whoever it was, it had not been an intimate relationship. Riah raised her brows and waited for the other woman to continue.

Beckman, tired of waiting for the stalemate to end, said, "His name is Edmund Donnelly."

Riah's frown was thoughtful. "There must be some sort of mistake," she said. The General put up a photograph of the man in question, and Casey watched Riah's face pale. It was obvious she recognized the man, and Casey wondered how she knew him. The photograph was replaced by one of Donnelly shaking hands with another man whose dress and posture practically screamed drug supplier and then one of him handing a briefcase off and receiving a small bale of what looked like cocaine in return. Donnelly was apparently stupid, was Casey's first thought. Most drug runners were smart enough to choose drops that didn't expose them to anyone with a long lens, and very few would accept what was obviously supposed to be drugs in the open.

Carina explained that Donnelly was the kingpin of a drug ring that stretched across Canada and was slowly moving into the United States. When Casey shot a look at her, it was easy to see Riah wasn't buying Carina's story, but he noticed she held her tongue. When Carina had finished, though, Riah said, "I fail to see what use I can be to you."

Carina spoke quickly, "That's what I said. From what we've learned, you're more likely to tip him off than help us."

Casey sent a glare at the DEA agent, and General Beckman's trademarked frown appeared. The General saved him from saying something he really shouldn't. "Miss Adderly's loyalties are not in question," she said tightly. She looked at Riah then. "I do, however, understand that you and Donnelly were childhood friends."

Riah nodded. "Eddie and I went to elementary school together. He went on to St. John's for high school, but I returned to Ottawa. I lost contact with him. We met again when I went to graduate school. I assume your files indicate that we dated for a while."

Casey's hand fisted and his jaw clenched. Every time he turned around, it seemed they ran into another man who had dated Riah. He bit back a comment to that effect, but Bartowski's mouth dropped open. "But didn't you and Casey—"

It was all he could do not to roll his eyes before he interrupted tightly, "Why do you think it was only for a while, numbnuts?"

Bartowski shut up, but Carina looked speculatively at them. "That wasn't in our files," she said.

Beckman said coldly, "Needless to say, it was in ours." She paused, and then said, "If I may continue? Carina has infiltrated Donnelly's organization here in the States. What I need you to do, Miss Adderly, is renew ties with your old friend. Let's see if you and he can rekindle enough of your old feelings for him to take you into his confidence."

"General," Casey began, remembering the last time they had played this particular scenario out, "I would like it on record that I object—" but she cut him off.

"You will sit this one out, Major."

It helped that Riah looked unhappy as she met Casey's eyes. "General, I would feel a lot better knowing John—"

She cut Riah off, too, he noticed. "We can't arouse Donnelly's suspicions by having him see you with the man who replaced him in your bed."

Riah's face flamed, but she was smart enough not to correct the woman. When Riah looked over at Casey, he shrugged, but he was no happier than she. There were only three of them at this particular party who knew Donnelly had no real reason to recognize Casey, which made him wonder why the General had decided to sideline him.

"Mr. Donnelly is in Los Angeles, Miss Adderly. We believe he is meeting with a representative of the Santiago Cartel. He's having dinner at Ivy this evening. I would like you to bump into him at the restaurant."

On second thought, Casey would be happy to miss cooling his heels where the pretty people grazed. Riah, as far as he could tell, would rather give it a miss as well, but he hadn't noticed, if he excluded her expensive underwear habit, that she frequented anywhere the famous went. "Look," she told the General, "I avoid places like that, if for no other reason than my mother's friends go there. I could be recognized as Ariel Taylor's daughter."

"I would think," the General told her tartly, "that this is one time being so recognized could work in your favor."

"Edmund knows my father, who he is," Riah tried next, and Casey caught that this time she used his full name. "He probably knows I work for him."

"Then you will inform Mr. Donnelly that you no longer work for ISI," Beckman bit out. "Tell him that when you and Casey began your relationship, we insisted you quit or quit seeing him."

Riah sat back, but Beckman apparently thought she was simply regrouping and decided to end this. "Now that your objections have been satisfactorily dealt with," she said with a steely glare and acid tone that told Riah not to raise another. Casey slid his hand into hers beneath the table as Beckman proceeded to outline the support she would have in place for the operation. Casey was as unhappy as Riah that Carina would be with Donnelly, mainly because the DEA agent's unpredictability made it more risky for Riah, whom Carina would sell if she had to in order to save her own ass. Casey knew better than most not to trust her.

As they made their way back to the Buy More with Bartowski, Casey told the younger man to go on ahead. He stopped Riah on the sidewalk. Before she could say anything, he dropped his voice and told her, "As soon as we get home, you're going to tell me what you know about Donnelly." She nodded.

He watched her as the day progressed. She often appeared lost in thought as she worked. He wondered what she was plotting, because he knew that expression she wore for most of the afternoon. He looked her friend up when he could steal a minute and was surprised to learn the man was a Mountie—or had been. That put an interesting wrinkle in things, and he considered various options, none of which seemed to fit what Carina described.

Still, it wouldn't be the first time a cop figured out crime could be far more lucrative.

* * *

Late in the afternoon he received the encrypted e-mail he had requested with a synopsis of Donnelly's career, and when he went to ask Riah about a couple of oddities in it, he couldn't find her. Bartowski said she'd gone in the back, but when he got there, he didn't see her. He saw Bunny, asked her if she knew where Riah had gone. "Loading dock," she told him tersely.

Casey had a bad feeling, one that was confirmed when he opened the door and heard her on her phone: "I need to know if Edmund Donnelly is still working for the RCMP."

He watched her fidget as she listened to whomever she spoke. Then she asked, "Is he working undercover?"

She was not selling information, he told himself. She was surely just making sure the target was what the file Casey had read said. Perhaps he should have sent it on to her so that she wouldn't be jeopardizing the mission this way. If the RCMP was looking at Donnelly as well, hell, even if CSIS or ISI was looking at Donnelly, he might have friends in those agencies who would tip him off after her call.

Then he heard her say, "Rob, I've been seconded to the Americans—which agency and why isn't important—but Eddie is in town, and he's wearing a target. I need to know if it's a legitimate target or if he's following orders."

He was going to kill her, he thought. If he didn't, Beckman would. She'd just told this Rob, whoever _he_ was, the one thing she shouldn't, and Casey didn't care how well she knew the man or how much she trusted him—that was one thing an operative _did not do._

"Too late," he heard her add. "There's a DEA agent who has infiltrated his organization, and I've been ordered to rekindle our friendship with the intent of getting the goods to bring him down."

Casey was furious. She had just compounded her mistake by telling whoever she spoke to the DEA was involved. He was going to have to call Beckman, who would probably send her home to her father, if she didn't order her arrested or killed.

"As Dad would say, bingo," Riah told the man to whom she spoke. Casey had a brief flash of amusement. Her father did, indeed, say that when he slotted the final piece of a puzzle in place. It was the first time he'd heard Riah use it, though.

He watched her as she paced to the edge of the concrete dock. "Probably not," he heard her admit. After a few moments, she added, "Listen," but whoever she spoke to must have cut her off. When he finished, she said, "I can live with that. There is a piece of information it would be useful for him to have about my cover, though."

She started to pace away, but then she stopped. "How did you know that?" Casey wondered what "that" was.

After a moment, she said, "I will."

There was another long pause. "I'll do that."

When she disconnected and turned around, Casey stood in front of the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't bother hiding how pissed off he was. "Tell me you weren't talking to the RCMP about Donnelly."

"Actually, I was."

He uncrossed his arms and stepped toward her. That she admitted it won her a few points, but she should not have done what she had just done, and from the look on her face, she knew it. He grabbed her arms and leaned down, but he tempered his voice a little. "Riah, if you've compromised this mission, Beckman will have your head."

"John, you saw those photographs. Anything strike you as odd about them?"

He frowned, and she maintained eye contact while he considered the photographs they had looked at. He'd thought as he looked at them that Donnelly was an idiot, but now he wondered if there was something else going on. He had, after all, seen that kind of photo before, and the other man in the pictures was a particularly obvious breed of scumbag. "Let me guess. The RCMP's running a sting, and Donnelly is the officer in charge."

"That's what Rob says," she said, "and I trust him."

He nearly asked who in hell this Rob was. Instead, he told her, "You realize you've just told them we're about to step on their operation."

She nodded. "You can yell at me if you want, John, but Rob will make sure Edmund isn't taken by surprise when I run into him. Carina is a wild card, as you say, but she's not an idiot. If Edmund fumbles or doesn't play along, then she's going to wonder why."

He eyed her. It was true enough, and he knew it. Carina was already pissed about Riah's inclusion, and she would use whatever she could to get her shut out of the operation. "What was your relationship with Donnelly?"

She blushed. "We dated, but it was cover."

He cocked his head and lifted a brow. "Make a habit of fake relationships?"

She laughed. "He's gay, John. I was cover for his boyfriend. He was undergoing a security check for admission to the RCMP. He couldn't afford for them to suspect his sexual orientation, so what better than to be seen dating the daughter of ISI's top agent?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Ghosts that Haunt—3**

Riah stood in front of the open closet door in her old room. Casey had just finished talking to Beckman. The restaurant had balked at allowing them to install surveillance, so they were going to have to put someone inside. Walker was nominated, so Casey was back to van duty. He'd told the General what Riah had done, felt he had to, and the General, after chewing on him for several minutes for not being able to control and contain Riah, had finally agreed that it was good to know a bit more about what they were walking into.

Casey had spoken to Riah's friend at the RCMP, Rob Renegar. He knew the name, knew Renegar had once been involved with Riah's mother. He vouched for Donnelly, though Casey admitted he was a little reluctant to take the word of a man who apparently found Ariel Taylor attractive.

He walked up behind Riah, looked over her shoulder. She hadn't moved all her clothes into their room yet. He wrapped his arms around her and told her, "Wear the flames."

She turned her head and looked up at him. He'd only seen her in it once, but he liked it. It felt like silk, and had two layers. The bottom one clung to her body, and the top one was looser, kind of floaty. The hem was uneven, and there was a faint pattern in oranges and yellows that bled into one another over the solid red beneath so it looked little like Riah was covered in flames. "I don't think so."

He shrugged. "It looks good on you." He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. "It'll get you noticed." He kissed her shoulder again. "You can move easily in it if you have to." He kissed a little closer to her neck. "It's long enough to hide your holster." He kissed the join of her neck and shoulder and added what he thought might be most persuasive. "It'll make Carina mad as hell to see you looking sexy."

She snorted. "When did you start moonlighting at _Spy Vogue_?"

This time, Casey snorted.

"No, I don't think so," she said with a smile, "despite the many merits you've just detailed."

When he asked her why, she reminded him of the deep vee in the back. "Leave your hair down and no one will notice," he whispered.

Casey turned her around and took her mouth. As she wrapped her arms around him, he undid the corner of the towel she wore and let the terry cloth slide off her. He molded her to him, his mouth on hers. He ran his hands down her back and over her backside. Her hands slid under his untucked shirt, and he lifted her, walked to the bed and followed her down on the bedspread.

He drove her wild, his mouth and hands on the places he had learned sent her over the edge. Her hands and mouth did their work as well, and when they lay spent, hands idly stroking over each other as they came down, Casey took Riah's mouth again. "I like you like this," he told her, "but you need to look good tonight."

"Remember the gay part?" she asked sleepily.

"I remember," he told her, hoped it was true, though he had no real reason to doubt her, "but this is as much about how others see you as how Donnelly sees you."

He kissed her again, then told her, "But you can't go out smelling like sex, so back in the shower."

She stretched against him. "Come with me."

"Doesn't matter if I smell like sex," he teased, and then he remembered Bartowski would be along for the ride.

* * *

Riah wore the dress, he was pleased to note, with a pair of sexy as hell red high heels. He stroked a hand down the hair she left down to hide the reminder of Edmonton. She also wore a wire and an earpiece. As they left the apartment, he gave her last-minute instructions. Bartowski waited by the fountain in the courtyard, and Casey tossed him the keys to the van parked down the street before he walked Riah to her car. "Be careful," he told her, dropped a kiss on her mouth, and reminded her to let them get in position before she went in. Beckman had arranged to have a spot marked off for them by the utility company.

"How can you be okay with this?" Bartowski asked as Casey got in the driver's seat.

He started to snap out that the kid seemed fine with Walker and what she got up to, but he bit it back. The kid wasn't okay with it, and Casey really wasn't interested in hearing it.

"Did you see that dress?" Bartowski sailed on, and Casey shot him a hard glare.

"I see you did," Casey said silkily. He knew the kid wasn't interested in Riah, but sometimes he liked to mess with him. Bartowski was often an easy mark.

The kid should have broken something given how quickly he backpedaled. Then, the kid changed gear. "Come on, Casey," Bartowski said. "I realize you've had your emotions surgically removed, but you can't seriously be alright with your girlfriend enticing her former boyfriend."

He really didn't want to think about it. Riah claimed Donnelly wouldn't be interested in her, but that didn't mean someone else wouldn't. "I picked the dress."

Interesting how that little piece of information shut Bartowski up for a good minute.

"You did?"

"It looks good on her," Casey responded. Then he dropped his voice to menace. "It got your attention."

"In a completely platonic kind of way—like appreciating good art."

_And the babble is back_, Casey thought as the kid ran on, tried to deflect what he thought was Casey being pissed off. He tuned it out, let Bartowski run off at the mouth while he considered the ways in which this might go wrong.

By the time they were in place and Riah arrived, though, he had begun to wonder whether or not he could find enough duct tape to do what the bar code labels at the Buy More had failed to do when the kid wanted him to talk about Ilsa. _Structural failure_, he decided. If he'd wrapped it around the kid's head a couple of times and gone for a few overlapping layers, it might have worked. Would have been painful as hell when the kid removed it and a section of hair afterward, too.

Riah said softly, "He's here," and Casey told Bartowski to can the chatter so he could listen. Then he heard Riah give a soft groan followed shortly by another woman's voice slurring, "Mariah, darling!"

Walker was in his ear. "Someone just joined Mariah."

That meant Walker didn't know who it was, and that meant this could go south quickly. Then he heard the newcomer ask, "Are you meeting Ariel?"

The woman's voice sounded familiar, and her use of Ariel's first name raised caution signals for Casey. "Riah?"

She answered him by saying, "Hello, Theresa. No, I'm here alone tonight."

Itty bitty dress and all hands, Casey remembered. The woman from the Baines job, Ariel's friend, who confirmed her identity by asking Riah, "What happened to that gorgeous, tall hunk of man you were at the gallery with?"

Bartowski gave him a look that seemed a cross between constipation and ah-hah! Riah told her she'd left him home.

"Darling," Theresa drawled, "I wouldn't leave a man like that alone. Who knows who might snatch him away?"

Bartowski bit his lip; Casey appreciated that he didn't say whatever it was he was thinking because Casey was pretty sure it would be at his expense. Bartowski, though, couldn't keep it in. "Who might snatch you away, Casey?"

The pitbull growl wiped the amusement off the kid's face, especially coupled with Casey's I-will-dismember-you-before-death glare.

Theresa had moved on, though, asked, "Did you hear about Gregory Baines?"

Casey's ears sharpened. He knew exactly what happened to Baines, so did Riah. The man was in solitary, and he was going to stay there. He wondered what story had gone out to cover his disappearance. He heard Riah's cool, "No, what?"

The woman's voice was so faint he almost didn't hear her say with relish, "He tried to sell a fake Rembrandt to one of the Van der Meers."

To no one's great surprise, Baines turned out to have dealt in stolen as well as legitimate art. Casey had no sympathy for the man's former clients who probably now wondered whether they had actually gotten what they paid for. It wasn't like they could have them evaluated without having to answer questions—or possibly charges for receiving stolen property. "Stupid," he heard Riah reply, and thankfully, Theresa didn't linger much longer, told Riah to call her so they could do lunch.

He headed off Bartowski by saying, "Word of advice, Bartowski. If a middle-aged woman, obviously drunk in a tiny dress and a voice that could peel paint ever approaches when you're with Riah, run."

"Duly noted," Bartowski said, and Casey was surprised the kid said nothing more on the subject. Instead, he chattered away about what they were there to do. Casey tuned it out, listened to Walker tell Riah that Carina's signal would be kissing Donnelly. Then Walker took Riah's order.

Bartowski got bored, especially since there were no eyes inside. Casey was as well, but not enough to start a conversation with the kid that could go any of a thousand different directions from the starting point. Finally, he heard Riah say, "On the move."

A moment later, she asked, "Edmund?"

Casey heard an odd accent when the man replied, "Mariah?"

"It's been a very long time."

"That it has. I last saw you in Montreal, five, six years ago?"

"Five," he heard her confirm.

"You left me for the tall American," he said. Casey had to admit that probably worked in their favor. Riah was right. If Donnelly fumbled, didn't know why she was there, it could raise doubts neither of them needed. "You still with him?"

She told Donnelly what they had agreed she would: "We split a year or so ago."

He heard Carina, then, and it occurred to him that not only had they failed to ask what alias she was using but that she had failed to provide it. "Who is this, Edmund?"

"A childhood friend, Carla. Mariah, I'd like to introduce Carla Casey. Carla, Mariah Taylor."

Casey's disgruntled growl was the lesser of the things he'd like to let loose at the moment, and it was harder to contain what he really wanted to say when Riah said with a seductive lilt in her voice, "Perhaps we could find an opportunity to catch up on old times."

Eddie-boy sounded like he liked that idea—a lot—when he responded: "Anytime."

Riah asked if he had something to write on, and Casey's teeth gritted. She told the other man to call her, and Donnelly promised to do so. She must have gone back to her table since the next thing he heard was a quick conversation between her and Walker, who apparently brought Riah's check. "Heading out," Riah said softly.

He watched for her as she left the restaurant and walked toward the van. He told Bartowski to get the door, and she stepped up and inside. "That's done," Casey told her as she dropped into the chair next to his and slipped off her shoes.

"Mmm," she said, lifting a foot to rub her arch.

Casey watched her fingers a moment and then reached for her foot. From the corner of his eye, he watched Bartowski's face redden. "That feels good," Riah said softly, and she put her other foot in his lap. He switched feet. "Why didn't you tell me Carina was using your name?" she asked as she fished out the earpiece and then the mic.

It was Casey's turn to blush. "I didn't know."

She nodded. They waited for Walker, and Riah gave him a verbal report of what he had not been able to see, including the fact that she suspected one of the men with him was his current lover. Casey raised his brows, and she gave him a list of Donnelly's nonverbal tells.

Bartowski's brows shot up. "I thought he was your boyfriend," he said at last.

Riah, after a glance at Casey for permission, told Chuck that she had been cover for Donnelly.

"Get their names when you see Donnelly," Casey told her when she looked back at him. He suspected that if Donnelly was on the up and up, they'd find they were either RCMP or CSIS. If they had been ISI, Riah should have known them. Since Carina wasn't wired or wasn't letting the feed come through—and Casey knew it could be either—they waited. After a while, Riah stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes. Casey took her hand and tugged her over and into his lap. He linked his hands over her hip, and she rested her head against his shoulder. "Tired?" She nodded and slipped a hand up around his neck.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead, and she lifted her face. He gave her a soft kiss. "Won't be much longer," he promised. She was nearly asleep when the door was wrenched open and Carina climbed in. Riah started to move out of his lap, but Casey's hands tightened on her, held her in place.

"Well, that was a bust," the other woman said, dropping into the seat Riah had previously occupied. She eyed the two of them and then said, "You certainly weren't trying very hard."

"I know Edmund," she said. "If I'd pushed, he would have been suspicious. He'll call."

Carina scoffed, but before she could say anything, Riah's phone rang. She picked up her bag, dug it out, and answered it. Because she was so close, Casey couldn't help but hear Donnelly when he said, "Have lunch with me tomorrow."

Riah met his eyes, and when he gave a slight nod, she answered, "I would love to. When?"

"I've got some business to take care of in the morning," Casey heard the other man say. "One?" He nodded again. That gave them plenty of time to get set up.

"One would be great," she told him. "Where should I meet you?"

"How about I pick you up?"

She looked at Casey, and he shook his head. He needed her in a spot they could control, a place where, with any luck, they could either have full surveillance or put their own people inside—preferably both. Riah said, "How about I just meet you?"

There was a pause. "Something I should know, Mariah?"

She watched Casey's face, and he wondered what she was about to say that he would be unlikely to approve. "I lied. I still live with the tall American." Casey was about to protest, but he closed his mouth. In truth, if Riah was right, if the man was what she claimed, it would probably be best if he knew Casey was around. If he wasn't what she purported, then it was equally useful for Donnelly to know Casey would keep an eye on her.

"Bad girl," Donnelly laughed. "You know I want to hear this story, especially since you and I both know there was no tall American in Montreal."

"How about you meet me?" she asked, and named her favorite bistro. Casey nodded at her choice. They'd found the management cooperative before. He began plotting what would need to be done while she and the other man said goodnight. "We'll see if we can get some audio in there, maybe video," he told her. "If not, we'll wire you."

Carina was not happy, and it showed. "This is supposed to be my case," she grumbled.

Riah shrugged and spoke before Casey could. "You asked for help."

That seemed to shut Carina up, and Casey dropped a kiss just below Riah's ear then whispered, "Play nicely."

She gave him a look that said she would do no such thing. He cranked a brow up and gave her a look to reinforce his instruction. He needed her to behave, but he was also aware that he needed her if Donnelly really wasn't what Carina claimed. Riah turned her gaze to Carina, "Interesting choice of cover name."

Pissed about that himself, he waited to hear what had possessed her to choose his name. Carina gave a slow smile. "I didn't think Johnny would mind."

Casey sure as hell did mind, but he didn't say so.

Bartowski, finally cluing in to the tension decided to get involved. "I'm sure Casey doesn't mind. After all, it isn't like he's going to meet Donnelly until the end of this, right?"

Carina turned her attention to him. Before she could put the kid down, Riah simply said, "Enjoy it while you can."

A sort of purring sound came from Carina. "I could say the same to you."

He felt Riah tense, but she decided, wisely as far as Casey was concerned, to disengage. Carina also decided to play nice, and that had Casey wondering when the next clash would start. At this point, the two women had managed if not to be polite to one another to at least not engage in bloodshed. Carina played for keeps, but Riah was still untested when it came to this.

Then it occurred to him to wonder if she was jealous.

She didn't act like it, though, at least not in the way he would have expected. She'd sniped about Celia and about Val, but that had been directed at Casey. This wasn't. This was more like trying to mix oil and vinegar: they simply didn't, at least not for long.

He'd had tense assignments before, assignments where there were more issues between his team than there were with the enemy, but this was the first time he suspected the animosity was about him. He was well aware how conceited that sounded, but there was no other explanation, other than Donnelly, and Riah didn't seem the least interested in the other man on a personal level.

Walker joined them, and Casey couldn't say he was sorry. Riah slipped off his lap and slid her shoes back on her feet. Her car was in the parking lot a block away, and she picked up her bag and fished for her keys. Casey, ready to escape, told Walker to take the van back, and he took Riah's hand and left with her. When they were clear of the van, she asked, "Shouldn't you stay with Chuck?"

He shrugged. "Walker can take care of him."

Casey took her keys and put her in the passenger seat before driving them home. Once they were inside, Riah headed for the stairs, but he stopped her. "We need to check in with Beckman," he said. She followed him, and they reported to the General. Beckman was pleased Riah had arranged a meeting so quickly.

When they were in bed, he told her, "I need to know what you told the RCMP."

Riah told him, explained that she had simply been checking to see if they knew what Donnelly was up to because she had doubts. She told him her contact at the RCMP had confirmed that her old friend was running an op and what it was. Then she told him she had sent her friend at the RCMP information to give Donnelly about their cover story—but only the part that said she and Casey had met in Montreal. "Though I suppose," she finished, "that he knows the cover is in use since I told him I still live with you." She thought a few minutes, and then she asked, "Are you sure Carina is really after what she says she is?"

He looked at her. "What do you mean?" Even as he said it, his mind began running various possibilities. It was true the DEA agent sometimes ran more than one game, sometimes played multiple agencies off one another, so he should probably have considered the idea sooner.

"Don't you think it odd that she hasn't done anything to move in yet? She's had to have seen enough to know Edmund's doing what she claims, but the DEA hasn't acted."

Her question was a valid one, and he considered it carefully. Riah had been in the business long enough to know, though, that sometimes letting a target run to gather more information was more valuable than an arrest. It was possible, he supposed, that Carina was after Donnelly's contacts and had delayed action to get them. He shrugged. "Maybe they're hoping to get one of the cartels."

Mariah thought it through. "I suppose, but then why interfere with an ongoing RCMP investigation, especially since the alleged drug ring is Canadian? Unless there's something she's not telling us, they apparently don't know he's a Mountie."

Casey grunted. Again, it was a valid point. The DEA normally wouldn't intrude into a friendly country without an invitation, but Carina had admitted they had gone into Canada on this. He doubted the RCMP had jurisdiction in the States, and he especially doubted that they would run an operation without the DEA's participation and cooperation. He decided there were questions he needed to ask, and he considered which of his contacts were most likely to know. Carina had left a lot of gaps, but that was par for her particular course. He slid a hand over Riah's stomach to her hip and turned her toward him. Riah ran her arms around his shoulders and lifted her face. Before his mouth found hers, she said, "I expected yelling."

"For what?" he asked.

"Calling Rob and tipping him off that the DEA might interfere with Eddie's operation."

Casey ran a hand down her spine. "Eddie?" He put a hint of menace in the name.

"We met when he was six, John, so, yeah, Eddie." She grinned. "Emotionally, he's probably only about twelve."

He snorted. "He's really gay?"

She laughed, and then she gave him a knowing grin. "You're just his type. Want an introduction?"

"He's not mine," he growled and caught her mouth in a kiss. When he broke the kiss, he murmured, "He'd better not be yours."

Riah moved closer to him. "Eddie and I have the same tastes in men," she told him softly, and she ran her hand onto his cheek. Her thumb stroked gently over his mouth, and then she kissed him, long and slow, with her entire body.

"For the record," he told her, rolling her onto her back, "I don't share, so don't get ideas about his boyfriend."

Riah pulled him down to her, and she put her lips against his, ran the tip of her tongue along his and then said, "I don't share, either." She kissed him. "And I only have ideas about you."

* * *

It wasn't hard to arrange for Riah to have the day off. Casey was already scheduled for a day off from the Buy More, and he enjoyed hacking into Milbarge's computer in the early hours and changing the schedule. He knew it would make the assistant manager nuts, and around mid-morning, Casey abused a few privileges and pulled up the feeds from the Buy More and watched the idiot check and recheck his computer. Milbarge was furious. Casey owned that he derived petty satisfaction from the other man's confused anger.

Unfortunately, as the morning wore on, Riah got weirdly nervous. Casey wondered if she had failed to tell him something—it wouldn't be the first time—but he suspected there was something else at play. He finally cornered her. "Spill," he ordered when he found her

She appeared to be staring at his chest. "This could go wrong in so many ways," she said. She lifted her head, met his gaze. "I could be recognized, depending on whether or not he brings people with him. Eddie's running a huge risk using his real name, and I can't believe his superiors let him." He understood those concerns, had had a moment or two himself where he wondered why Donnelly hadn't used a cover name given what he was doing. It would be all-too-easy to find out he was a Mountie if anyone checked, and there would always be someone careless enough to confirm he still was if asked with the right incentive.

"It'll have to play out as is," he told her. "You won't be alone in there. The staff other than the cooks will be our people."

She dressed in a pair of jeans and a light, v-necked sweater over a t-shirt. When asked, she told him she had an ankle holster and wore a vest. She blushed and admitted to a second handgun in her shoulder bag.

In an attempt to settle Riah, Casey suggested she head out a little early. He had van duty yet again, and she let him get in place before she entered the restaurant. Casey was grimly amused that Donnelly, already seated, must have had the same idea.

Casey watched as Donnelly stood and put his arms around her when she arrived at their table. The other man kissed her and then held her chair. Casey's lip curled. Donnelly lifted a bottle of wine from the table, and Riah smiled when he poured her a glass. Casey's eyes narrowed when he saw her mouth move, form a silent word, as she picked up her glass. She did _not,_ he thought angrily, just tell the man she was wearing a wire. "Riah," he growled and then shut up. She'd made smart calls so far, and she knew their conversation would be recorded. He'd just have to trust that she knew what she was doing, despite his doubts.

It was mind-numbing to sit there and listen to them talk about their childhood in Newfoundland, though Casey did get a different picture of her. Donnelly had apparently known her before her abduction, and the little girl the man described sounded very different than the woman Casey knew. Donnelly mentioned someone from their past, and he watched Riah's head tilt the way it did when she wasn't sure of something. He shifted cameras so he could see her face. She frowned, looked puzzled, and remained quiet while Donnelly talked. After a moment, Casey caught a strange pattern in the man's words.

_Fucking code_, he thought in disgust. Before he could say anything, a waiter who was really a CIA officer took their orders. When they were alone again, Casey noticed Riah's words were hesitant, though the apparent subject wasn't something that should have made her so. "You realize you're translating this for me later," he told her silkily.

Then, to Casey's amusement, Donnelly began asking her about him. The man gave no indication that he knew Casey was NSA, though he was certain Donnelly had to know. "So you're still with your tall American?"

Riah confirmed it.

The man grinned. "You always did go for tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed men," he said on a sigh. "I was no competition, was I?"

For a moment, Casey felt the anger rise above simmer, but then he remembered what she had told him. The man was obviously playing for the audience. It mollified Casey to hear Riah say, "Much as I hate to crush your ego, none whatsoever." She sipped her wine and then said, "But I don't think you and I would ever have worked out, Eddie. We knew way too much about one another."

"True," he agreed, and Casey wondered what the man knew about her that he didn't.

"Want to tell me about the redhead?"

Donnelly gave her a wide smile. "Oh, how I wish you were jealous," he said, and then added, "but, truthfully, Carla's only an associate with aspirations, my dear."

Riah laughed at that, and Casey caught the edge of mean. "What kind of business are you in, Eddie?"

He shrugged. "Import-export. I have a home base in Vancouver."

"Really?" she asked. "What to do you import and export?"

They paused as their orders were set in front of them. "Believe it or not, I decided to put my art history degree to use. Remember how I wrote my thesis on folk art of the Dene?" Casey wondered who or what the Dene were, but Riah nodded. "I started by helping them establish a co-op for their work, and from there they introduced other nations to me. I send their work out of Canada and across Canada, and I bring in work from southeast Asia. I'm moving into South and Central America, now, and I've had a few feelers from Alaska and the Pacific Northwest here in the States."

"I'm impressed," she said, and so was Casey. If Donnelly was truly in the drug trade, was truly doing as he said, he had regular shipping routes he could use and artifacts that would make concealing the product relatively easy. "I assume those two gentlemen with you last night were business associates?"

His smile was sly, and Casey recognized the expression. Riah was right, he realized, and one of the men was something more than an associate. Donnelly's answer was clearly coded, and Casey wondered if the name he dropped was real or part of that code. The other man then told her the other associate was Paulo Figueiro, and mentioned that he was Brazilian. Drugs weren't Casey's usual gig, but he suspected that meant the supposed Brazilian was undercover as well, especially since Casey knew Brazil exported most of its illegal drugs to Europe.

As lunch wound down, Donnelly said, "I'm throwing a party tomorrow night. Why don't you come? Bring your American, if you like."

Riah demurred, and Edmund cajoled her. Casey told her to accept. It would get them on the inside and get them a closer look at who Donnelly was playing with. Casey still didn't trust Carina, still wasn't sure what she'd dragged them into, but he wouldn't mind a first-hand look. Riah let the man suggest one more time that she come before she agreed. Casey watched as the man took a pen and a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and wrote as he told her what time he'd expect her. She accepted the piece of paper and told him she'd be there.

Once more, the agent posing as their waiter arrived at the table. They declined dessert, and when the check came, Donnelly insisted on paying.

They left the restaurant together, and Donnelly offered to drive her home or to work. Riah was smart enough to tell him she was staying at her mother's Malibu house and didn't want to take him so far out of his way. It neatly kept him from their home and Bartowski's as well as Castle and the Buy More. Casey watched as the man hailed a cab for her, and Casey told her to meet him at Castle. She gave the driver Large Mart's address. Casey followed once Donnelly was out of sight. The cab deposited her at the store, and he watched her go inside.

He met her in the yogurt shop a few minutes later. Walker had called Bartowski, that or the kid was on break and had just turned up. Casey was simply glad Carina was not with them. It was a short-lived happiness since the woman joined them quickly. She eyed Riah and said, "Now that the two of you have caught up on old times, maybe you'd like to get down to business next time."

So she had been listening in, Casey thought. Riah fixed an innocent look on her face and said, "Remember, your lot only cut me in because you were clearly not up to the job."

To his surprise, Carina didn't engage. He couldn't help wondering why not. It was the kind of challenge she normally confronted head-on.

They reported to Beckman, who agreed he and Riah should attend Donnelly's party. Riah didn't look happy, and Casey was curious. Riah told General Beckman quietly that Donnelly would know Casey, and it was entirely possible other attendees might as well. She also said that since Carina was using Casey as a cover name, it might prove awkward and more than coincidental. Beckman then suggested Carina could say Casey was her brother. Casey struggled to hide the cringe, though presenting him as a relative might cover any of Carina's verbal digs. Bartowski was the one who pointed out that it might be too much of a coincidence for Carina's brother to turn up with Donnelly's ex-girlfriend.

They talked further and finally decided that coincidence happened and would happen in this case. Carina was asked for a probable guest list so they could determine if anyone present might recognize Casey. She began listing names, and they decided it was unlikely anyone would know him. He was, nonetheless, cautioned to take care. After Beckman disconnected, they discussed a few plans, and then Casey told Riah he would take her to get her car which was still at the restaurant.

When they were in the Vic, he asked, "So what were you two really talking about?"

Riah didn't dissemble. She told him that one of the men from the night before was CSIS and that Donnelly was on to Carina. Her phone buzzed, and she looked at the screen. "It's Edmund."

Casey told her to answer it.

She did so, and then shot Casey a look. "Yes."

Riah moved the phone from her ear, held it between them, and pushed a couple of buttons. Donnelly's voice said, "Major Casey? I asked Mariah to do this so we're all clear here. Your DEA agent is dangerously close to ruining two and a half years' worth of work. I need someone to put a leash if not an actual muzzle on her. Tomorrow night's party is the final play of this little game. I trust Mariah, and she trusts you. As a result, I'm willing to do so as well. I need the lovely Carina occupied and out of the way."

Donnelly went on to explain he had several cartel leaders coming to the party—a fact Carina did not know. He told them he had reason to suspect the redhead was playing a game of her own with the Colombian representative and that her game involved a particular set of emeralds. Riah groaned when the other man said that, and Casey shot her a look. Donnelly went on. "Mariah can explain that to you, and I'm going to have to ask you a really huge favor here, Mariah."

She sighed, and said, "There's absolutely no way she's going to let me have them, Eddie."

"Who says you have to ask?" Riah's face said she was afraid Donnelly was about to ask her to steal them. "One of my native artisans has made a damned good fake. If you'll tell me where to send them, I'll get them to you, Mariah. All I ask is that you wear them to the party."

"I might as well wear my bullet-proof vest with the big ISI letters on it," she groused, and Casey shot her a grin.

"Actually," Donnelly told her, his voice a little tinny through the speaker, "you're the perfect distraction. Only the Colombians will recognize what you're wearing. We have the goods on them, and not only will they be too busy trying to reclaim their national heritage, but Carina will be focused on you as well, especially if, as I suspect, she's made a deal for the emeralds. That lets me and my team finish what we need to without her interference."

Suddenly, Casey had a clear picture of why he had been included in the other man's invitation, and it pissed him off. It was one thing for Riah to choose to endanger herself; it was quite another for Donnelly to knowingly put her smack in front of the crosshairs, especially to provide a distraction. For an uncomfortable moment, Casey realized he'd done the exact same thing a time or two, and he didn't like that any better. "I assume that's where I come in," Casey said quietly.

"I can't protect Mariah and do my job at the same time," Donnelly conceded, "and there's no way I'm going to face V. H. and tell him what I put his daughter up to if something happens to her. From what I hear, you're more than capable of seeing she stays safe. Bring a friend or two with you. I understand you work with the beautiful and deadly Sarah Walker these days."

"Walker and Carina go way back," Casey bit out, though he was certain Donnelly knew that. "She'll be torn between loyalties. I don't think she's a good choice."

"Bring someone else, then, or have Mariah call on ISI for some resources."

"I'd have to tell Dad everything to get ISI operatives," she warned him. Casey doubted V. H. would approve the request if she gave him all the details. He had finally placed what emeralds they spoke of, and that necklace had caused a lot of trouble over the years, had nearly gotten Ariel killed more than once, so there was no way V. H. would let Riah walk into a room with Colombian thugs wearing it—regardless of how well guarded she might be.

"That, I can't let you do," Donnelly returned. "ISI is riddled with Fulcrum, and I can't afford to have someone leak to them what I'm doing. This is a lot more complicated than a simple drug deal, Mariah. Admittedly, since Laurance started singing, they're getting a handle on the various cells, but I can't risk it."

Casey's attention was suddenly intensely focused. "Fulcrum's mixed up with this?"

"Tangentially," Donnelly confirmed, "but, yes. They've discovered drugs make a good funding stream for their activities, but they've also found the drug smuggling networks are good for smuggling other things, like information and weapons."

Casey agreed to bring a couple of agents along, was already sorting through and selecting and rejecting possibilities as Riah finished the call. Casey drove in silence a moment, and then he said, "Get me up to speed, Riah."

Riah told him the story he only partially knew from V. H. She explained that her mother and father had met over a set of emeralds her mother had acquired in a shady deal when she played Bogota early in her career. The Colombian government had wanted them returned since they had historical significance, but Ariel had refused, had even defiantly worn them to an embassy event in Ottawa later where the Colombian ambassador had made very explicit threats to her. She was about to embark on a Canadian tour, and V. H., who was in trouble with Clack, was punished by being head of her security detail. "Mum still has them, and the Colombians still want them."

Casey flashed a grin and hoped it didn't show that for a brief moment he considered the possibilities. "Let me guess. They're willing to kill for them."

She nodded.

He snorted then decided, _why not?_ "I might be able to make them a deal."

There was a slight smile, though Riah chose to ignore his comment other than that brief lifting of her lips.

When they got home, he got back in touch with Beckman. He and Riah told her about the call from Donnelly, and Beckman quickly decided they would carry through—and take Bartowski to see if he could identify any Fulcrum agents who might be in attendance. They would send a couple of other agents in as well. She asked Riah to arrange for them to be on the guest list. The General told Riah to have Donnelly deliver the package to a public place. When Beckman had disconnected, Riah and Casey talked over potential locations to collect the emeralds, and Riah finally chose the local library, reference section. She pointed out any of the usual haunts, while under surveillance and controllable, might lead others to Bartowski.

Riah made a fast phone call, and then drove straight there. Casey tailed her, and he didn't even try to hide that he was doing so. He followed her inside, lurked among the shelves where he could see her. He watched her take a seat at a reading table opposite a guy who looked like he'd spent more time in a gym than with a book. Riah set her bag in the middle of the table and opened a thick tome. They both sat and read for several minutes, and then the bulk of muscle reached for her bag and slid a flat, wooden box inside. Not subtly done, Casey noted, but done nonetheless. Riah continued to read for a good fifteen minutes after the man left before leaving herself.

Home again, she pulled the flat, square, wooden box out and popped it open. Casey looked over her shoulder. It was a stunning piece, he noticed. Polished emeralds set in primitive gold. "Got a loupe?" she asked. He rummaged in a drawer and handed her one, took a look when she finished. They might even fool an expert, he realized.

Casey gave an approving grunt. "I saw these on your mother once," he said. Then he corrected himself. "Well, not these, I guess."

He saw to the details, called the agent he'd chosen. He'd really rather have Walker, but he wasn't sure after what had happened the year before that it wouldn't just embolden Carina to have her along. That evening, he called Bartowski over when the female agent arrived, and he and Riah walked the two of them through the following evening. Donnelly, apparently willing to assist, had e-mailed Riah house plans.

* * *

The following evening, Riah chose a long, white dress. It had only one shoulder, but was cut in such a way it would hide her scars. It was also slit up the sides to mid-thigh, and Casey eyed those slits and nearly suggested she change as he tied his bow tie before putting on the tuxedo jacket that had been carefully tailored to hide his holstered SIG. She wouldn't be able to wear a holster with that much of her legs exposed, though he had to admit the emeralds would stand out with the heavy, white silk as a background. She added a wide gold band bracelet and slipped on a pair of gold sandals as he watched. He realized her legs were bare. He dropped a kiss on her exposed shoulder and picked up the necklace and fastened it into place. It was heavier than he had expected.

Bartowski was already downstairs, dressed in a tux, too, and Alice Wozniak, the female agent he'd chosen sat on the sofa. Wozniak wasn't as pretty as Walker, but she was, if anything, meaner. Wozniak had been told to lend a hand if needed but that her primary job was to keep Carmichael, as he'd introduced Bartowski to her, alive and out of trouble.

There was an uncomfortable moment for Casey when Donnelly gave him an appreciative look and held onto his hand a little longer than necessary when Riah introduced him and Donnelly shook his hand. The other man kissed Riah's cheek, and Casey heard her say softly to Donnelly, "Down, boy."

Donnelly grinned and said softly, "They look good on you. Want to keep them?"

"Assuming I stay alive?" and she quirked a brow at him.

Casey noticed Donnelly gave her an unrepentant grin.

They mingled. Casey caught three men staring at Riah as though they had seen a ghost. He looked closer, recognized one as part of Pablo Molina's organization.

That put a whole new level of urgency to this little party. If Molina was connected to this, there was more to it than just drugs and Fulcrum. Molina wasn't a drug dealer except out of expediency. He was a terrorist intent on bringing a Castro-style coup to his country, and drugs provided some easy money when he ran short of funds. Casey looked closer, realized that one of them had to be related to Molina. The family resemblance was strong, and Casey, who had trained Colombian troops years earlier, had been close enough to Molina more than once to know.

The Colombians were practically on point. Casey leaned in on the pretext of kissing Riah and whispered that she was to stay close to him or Wozniak. She gave him a brilliant smile with a faint nod.

Carina sidled up, and her eyes goggled when she saw what Riah was wearing.

"Like living dangerously?" she asked softly.

Riah shrugged. Casey's eyes narrowed, knew Donnelly had been dead on when he suggested the DEA agent had a side game running.

"Johnny," the redhead said with a catty grin, "where's Sarah?"

"Couldn't make it," he lied. He nodded at Bartowski and Wozniak.

Carina made a face. "Wozniak? Really? And I see you brought the analyst. I would have thought you'd bring more seasoned people, Johnny."

Donnelly approached then, dropped a kiss on Carina's cheek and said, "Carla, I didn't see you arrive."

She ran a hand up his chest and smiled. Casey felt a little slimy to think he'd let her do much the same to him once. He tried not to think of the more he had allowed. "You were busy, and I thought I'd just join the crowd."

There came a point where Casey had to go deal with Bartowski. He and Riah both recognized his flash face, and Casey left her side to see what had happened. When they had earmarked four Fulcrum agents and Bartowski finished looking like he was about to be violently ill from the flashes, Casey noticed Riah, the three Colombians, and Carina were all missing. He should have put a wire on her, he realized, but he hadn't expected to get separated from her. He paled when he realized what could happen to her—not to mention what her father would do to him when he had to tell the man.

For the next twenty minutes or so, he kept an eye on Bartowski and watched for Riah. She was resourceful, he reminded himself, and if Donnelly had half the brains she thought he did, he'd have someone watching out for her. He was relieved when he finally saw her slip inside through French doors that opened out to the pool. Her necklace was missing, which meant she had been with the Colombians, but she didn't look any the worse for wear. She was pale, and he caught something in her eyes.

He took her by the hand and took her upstairs to an empty bedroom. "The Colombians—one of them is one of Pablo Molina's lieutenants, probably a family member. He asked about Chuck. He knows about me. He knows Carina is DEA."

Ignoring the information about Molina's relative since he had already figured that out, he focused instead on the rest of what she had to say. From her face, the man knew she was more than simply an ISI operative, and coupled with Riah's assertion that the man knew about Bartowski, Casey could draw only one conclusion. At a guess, since Molina would have no personal use for the Intersect, he figured he could either sell Bartowski—or Riah—to someone who did or he could sell the information a piece at a time to the highest bidder.

As for Carina, she was a big girl and could take care of herself. It wouldn't hurt Casey's feelings if she couldn't.

"Stay here." He'd send Bartowski up to her, maybe Wozniak. Riah had played her part for Donnelly, so Casey could safely take her out of play. He went to find Bartowski.

He quickly told the kid where Riah was, told him to join her and stay with her. Bartowski looked like he was about to argue, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Donnelly signal another man. "Now, Bartowski," Casey said. "It's either that or be in the crossfire." Thankfully, the kid went, and then it all went to hell. Donnelly's men moved in. Casey was caught in the clean-up. He was so in his element, he forgot, for a moment, about Riah and Bartowski as they rounded up the bad guys with the help of CSIS and the DEA. It wasn't until they had them sorted and subdued that Casey realized Carina wasn't there.

"You'd better find Mariah," Donnelly told him.

Wozniak stayed and helped the DEA while Casey climbed the stairs. As he opened the door, he heard Bartowski say, "You're about to tell me the house equivalent of stay in the car." His eyes found the kid who stood nose to nose with Riah. "Casey and Sarah always tell me to stay in the car."

Riah looked like she had been in a fight, and a nasty one at that. The dress was spattered with blood, most of which appeared to have come from a split lip and her nose. Half her hair had fallen down, and she wasn't wearing her shoes. "What happened?" he demanded as he caught her elbows.

He followed Riah's gaze to where the bed stood in an alcove.

His first instinct was to swear. His second was to laugh. He chose to simply grunt.

"Amusement," Bartowski deadpanned. "That's good, Casey."

Casey couldn't even muster annoyed for the kid. He looked back at Riah, tipped her face and considered whether or not he could afford to say what he really wanted with Bartowski as witness. He'd tell Walker, after all, and Casey would rather not add to Walker's arsenal.

Riah had, apparently, not only bested Carina, but the DEA agent was currently out cold, cuffed to an iron headboard, gagged with her own stocking, and naked as the day she was born.

He would not smile.

He would not say a word.

He was damned well taking a picture the minute he got a chance.

Turning his attention back to Riah, he saw the cut wasn't that bad, though Riah would have a fat lip. Her nose wasn't broken, he noted, and the bleeding had stopped. "Clean up's starting. Donnelly is asking for you." He palmed his phone, considered how to do this, but his phone vibrated in his hand.

Bartowski had done the job for him, he noted as he pulled it from his pocket. Riah's brows rose as she saw the satisfied smirk on his face.

"Your girlfriend's a badass, Casey," the kid told him.

Riah apparently decided to throw Bartowski under the bus. "He's the one who told me to gag her and reminded me that photographic evidence was required."

A shadow crossed Riah's face then. "John," she said softly, "she—."

He bent and stopped her with a soft kiss, gave her a look that told her to save it, and led her and Bartowski back downstairs.

There were several DEA agents leading people out, and Donnelly and his CSIS partner stood talking near the pool doors. "Molina's goon do that?" Donnelly asked, gesturing at Riah's face as they joined him. She shook her head. All business now, he continued, "We got the ones we were after, and they'll take the Colombians soon." He leaned in and kissed Riah's cheek. "Thanks for the distraction."

They stayed long enough to answer the DEA's questions, but Riah refused to let a medic look at her face. Casey suspected she wanted to go before someone found Carina. He told Donnelly he thought he'd get Riah home unless they needed them further. The other man shook his hand, thanked him for his assistance, and told him he was a lucky bastard.

Casey dropped Wozniak at the field office as she asked, and then he drove home. They checked in with Beckman, and then Casey sent Bartowski home. He took Riah's hand and led her in the kitchen. He got a clean dish towel and ice from the fridge before he took a first aid kit out of one of the cabinets. He cupped her chin and gently cleaned her split lip. "What was the fight about?" he asked.

She winced when her grin pulled the torn skin. "Not you," she said and he raised his brows. "She told Molina's men who I was and suggested they kill me."

Anger spiked, but he could well imagine she'd done exactly what Riah had said. Carina played dangerous odds, usually the very long shots. He released Riah and started putting ice in a plastic bag. "You said they knew what you were."

She wasn't fooled by his casual tone. "He knew about me, and he knew what you did for me." Casey's eyes shot to hers. Her eyes and her face went hard. She repeated what the man had said to her, that Casey and her father had sold their integrity for her after the mess with Laurance, and she told Casey she thought the man was the only one who knew. She explained that the others with him apparently didn't speak English, so she couldn't be sure. She then told him about the man's interest in Bartowski and how she convinced him Chuck was of no value.

Casey closed the bag of ice and wrapped the dish towel around it before handing it to her. He'd known Laurance would cost him, but he could live with that. He'd done what was right, and if he'd had a personal investment in the outcome he'd tried to achieve, well, it was one of the few times he'd acted on personal interests. Bartowski was apparently rubbing off on him, he supposed, but that idea didn't sting as much as it usually did.

Riah gently put the wrapped ice bag against her face.

"So how did he know?"

She shrugged then watched as he tidied things away. "Carina was there, listening. She accused us of being dirty."

He snorted dismissively, but the comment hit a raw nerve. In part, it was that accusation coupled with the implication that Casey lacked integrity, but in part it was the urge to use words like _pot_, _kettle_, and _black_. In addition, he was going to have to find a way to report what Riah had said without it looking like payback. Carina might have finally skated too far over the line, and, if so, then it was time to take her skates away. Thankfully, that would be someone else's job.

It was entirely possible, though, that the woman was needling Riah, and it was equally possible that she really had gone too far this time, sold information or made deals that were on the wrong side of the law. It happened to agents, and Carina was ripe for that. Her ideas of right and wrong were looser than most, and because of her drive to win at any cost, he had long wondered when she would finally lose sight of the line between the two. That would be a shame. She did her job, but thankfully Casey rarely had to be there when she did.

He went about his nightly routine, checked the locks on the windows and door, set the alarm, and wrapped an arm around Riah before leading her upstairs. In their bedroom, he settled in next to her, pulled her close and said, "The next time an old friend of yours runs a game, let's just be spectators."

She snorted. "Next time that skinny bitch wants to play, let's not."

The better part of valor was not to answer, he knew, and he decided that was his best recourse.

* * *

Over the next week or so, Casey grew uneasy, but he couldn't quite figure out why. He and Riah got along, he did his job, and she did hers. Bartowski flashed, and he and Walker dealt with the kid's intel and several threats.

One afternoon, though, Casey found himself on a beach with Riah, Walker, Bartowski, Ellie and her fiancé, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was doing there. To all outward appearances, he was there with his girlfriend and friends. He could argue Riah was a kind of girlfriend, but he wasn't sure he could legitimately claim the others as friends, wasn't even sure he wanted to. He watched Riah, who, conscious of the questions exposing her back would raise, refused to swim, claimed she couldn't, and Casey was surprised no one remembered that first time he took her to the Bartowskis' apartment where she told Woodcomb she enjoyed swimming.

As he walked her a little away from the others, it dawned on him: he was not only getting soft, he was being domesticated—and he didn't like that at all. It was partly the situation, and it was partly her.

For the next several days, he considered that, chewed on it. Casey was happy to get the chance to shoot things and indulge in an explosion or two the following week, but it didn't change the fact that he increasingly wanted out. This wasn't his life, not his real life, anyway, and he wasn't sure he wanted it to ever _be_ his life.

But it was an easy one. Chuck-watch, as Riah called it, was rarely taxing for him, and living with Riah provided a number of comforts. He was surprised she seemed content with a fairly traditional female role, but he didn't mind that someone was cooking for him and cleaning up after him. He was capable of doing that, didn't mind it much after several decades doing it, but he admitted it was nice to not have to. The sex was comfortable as well, and they got along with relatively few hiccups.

But he kept circling back to the fact that it wasn't his life, and it was getting harder to remember that.

* * *

Casey moaned when the alarm went off. He slapped a hand at the clock, missed, and then tried again, smacked the snooze button. He fumbled around and found the button that actually turned the alarm off and made sure it wouldn't wake him again. Riah stretched, and he felt her body move against him, her skin slide along his.

When Riah's arm began to move from him, he stopped it, took her wrist. "Got work," she mumbled.

"Call in sick." He put his mouth to her forehead.

She lifted her face, and he kissed her. She kissed him back, but there was no passion there. She wasn't quite awake yet, and he applied himself to getting her so, smiled when she moved against him, returned his kiss with fire. He started to roll her beneath him, but she beat him to it, pulled herself on top of him and straddled his hips. She broke their kiss, sat up, and he ran his hands up her flat stomach to her breasts as she positioned herself over him. He didn't mind the lack of foreplay, didn't mind her taking the lead, especially not when she lowered herself on him and began to move. He pulled her down for a hungry kiss and then began helping her. When she came, hard, he followed her.

Riah collapsed on top of him, and he smiled against her hair. He traced her spine lightly with his fingertips, and she breathed in deeply and made that purring sound she frequently made after sex. He liked that sound, liked it a lot. He felt her mouth against his chest, against his neck, and he lifted his head so that he could meet her mouth when she reached for it. One of his hands reached up and cradled her cheek while the other slid down her back. When she lifted her head, she smiled at him. "I have to get up."

He grunted, but he let her go. He watched her pad naked out of the room to the bathroom. He had the day off, and he didn't intend to get up for a while. He rolled over and dropped off again. He woke when Riah dropped a kiss on his mouth when she was ready to leave. He mumbled something about seeing her later and returned to sleep.

At midday he finally got out of bed. There had been a late night mission the night before, and even though it hadn't panned out, it had still drained him, especially mentally since he had had to listen to Bartowski ramble on about some television show that just got cancelled and how the writer/director had been robbed once again. Casey had tuned him out by contemplating assassination methods best suited to an urban environment.

He wrote his report while he drank his coffee and sent it off to the General. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when she called not long afterward. "Major," she said gravely. "I've decided to grant your request."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Obviously, I begin adding to the timeline here.

* * *

**Ghosts That Haunt—4**

"Major," she said gravely. "I've decided to grant your request."

Casey was confused, but he kept his face impassive. He hadn't made a request. He had simply sent an operations report.

When he said nothing, the General continued: "A car will collect you in an hour, Major. You are to return to Washington on a military transport, and you will receive your orders when you arrive."

_**That**__ request_, he thought. He had made it repeatedly for over a year before he accepted he was stuck with Mission Moron until Bartowski either finally got himself killed, Casey had to kill him, or he was dropped into a bunker for the rest of his life. A part of him felt the familiar thrill at finally getting to go back to what he considered his real job. Another part of him was sorry to see the cushiest assignment he had ever had end. Then there was Riah. "General," he began only to have her cut him off.

"Major, we need you elsewhere. Things are under control there."

"Bartowski—"

"Is no longer your problem, Casey."

His shoulders dropped. He tried one more time. "Riah."

"Miss Adderly will return to her own agency," the General said. Casey's eyes narrowed. Something was going on here, something he didn't quite trust. "Miss Adderly does not need to know you're leaving or what your destination is, Major. I will see to it she's told your part of this assignment is at an end." The look on her face convinced him not to try and make further arguments. He was leaving, but Riah deserved to hear it from him, and he told the General so. The woman on the screen gave him a hard look. "I realize you and Miss Adderly have gone beyond the parameters of the assignment, Major, and you've been warned more than once about maintaining distance from her. Thus far you've failed to do so. Your relationship with Miss Adderly," and Casey noted she made the word _relationship_ sound like a swear word, "interfered with an assignment seriously enough that she gave away information and another agent's integrity was questioned."

_Carina_, he thought bitterly. There had been an investigation, and while Carina hadn't been completely exonerated, she hadn't been fired, either. The General shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Casey cocked his head. That was new, he thought. The woman didn't usually fidget, and his suspicions deepened. Beckman then admitted, "I was able to contain the fact that Miss Adderly shared information with the Canadians." Her mouth pressed together tightly a moment before she continued. "Given that, in this case, she was apparently right to do so, there will be no repercussions there." Her face hardened, "But you, Major, need distance, and since you can't achieve it in place, you will do so from Afghanistan."

He could hardly protest, he realized. He'd asked to go, after all, and Beckman was now letting him. If he balked, she would simply make it an order, and if he tried to talk his way out of going, then there were other questions he would likely have to answer, questions he wasn't certain he could answer truthfully. He resigned himself to leaving.

"Bartowski?"

"Is no longer your problem, Casey," she replied again. This time he had been about to ask how the kid would be guarded, but Beckman didn't give him the chance. "The clock is ticking, Major." She disconnected, and he was left staring once more at the official seal. He did his duty. He went upstairs and took the packed bag with his uniforms, weapons, and the rest of what he would need to report for active duty from the closet in the spare room.

When he had brought his bag downstairs, he debated calling Riah and telling over the phone her he was going or leaving her a note. He normally didn't bother with goodbyes, especially not in cases like this. He was afraid that if he called her, she would come straight home, and he wasn't sure he was up to saying goodbye with an audience if he detoured to the store to tell her. If he did call and she did come home, when she left the Buy More, he suspected Bartowski would be with her with Walker following closely behind. The note was easier but less personal. He grabbed a pad and wrote one, told her he was being recalled, that he didn't know how long he would be gone or even if he would be back. He wrote that he would contact her when he could. It seemed cold and impersonal, but he didn't know what else to put on the page, not when he wasn't sure who might see it before she did.

That was something he had avoided acknowledging. It was probable the General intended to install someone else here to take his place on Team Bartowski, and it was entirely possible that whoever it was would move in before Casey hit the base from which he would depart. He didn't like the idea of Riah coming home to find her things packed, or, worse, having someone go to the Buy More and relieve her. Another thought occurred to him, and he went upstairs and swept their bedroom. There were no bugs, so he picked up his phone and called Walker.

"You talked to Beckman lately?" he asked baldly.

"Not since the briefing yesterday," she said, "why?"

"Just curious." So Walker was likely staying in place, which made sense since it would look strange for them all to leave at the same time. Bartowski would certainly be happier with a little continuity, too. He made an excuse and hung up. Walker would likely take the first opportunity to check in with Beckman. Casey wondered what she would be told about his reassignment.

He went downstairs and looked around the living room. A small photograph of Riah caught his attention. It had been taken by Ellie Bartowski the afternoon they'd all gone to the beach. Casey picked it up. Riah wore a blue sundress, one with a neckline that left her shoulders mostly exposed but covered her front and back up to the line of her collarbones. Her hair was down, and the wind blew it gently as she softly smiled. She hadn't swum that day, claimed she couldn't, but Casey had seen her look longingly at the water and known the real reason was that she didn't want to explain the scars on her back, scars she would be unable to hide in a swimsuit. Her explanation had been one of her rare slips in their cover, the only one he could really remember her making, but no one seemed to remember that at that first dinner at the Bartowskis' she had told Woodcomb she swam. He stuck the photograph in his bag.

A little more than twenty-four hours later, he was in uniform and on his way to the Afghan and Pakistan border on a plane filled with replacement troops. He had heard nothing from Riah and had not had a chance to contact her. General Beckman had promised to explain to her, and Casey hoped she kept that promise.

- X -

Mariah took a deep breath and opened the door. It was getting harder and harder to act normally, or at least to act like a normal person. John was gone, and last night had simply driven the point home. She had come home from work to find their bedroom had been stripped of all his personal belongings. The bathroom and kitchen, too, were devoid of anything that had belonged to him. A fast check of the rest of the apartment showed that only the equipment provided by the NSA in their living room and enough of what she had always called his trophies remained. Admittedly they weren't his—just substitutes. She hadn't figured that out at first, but when she looked closer at the bonsai on the bookshelf, it was clearly not the one that had been there the day before, its size and shape subtly different, its tray a slightly darker shade than the one that had actually been John's. It was the same with the model planes—they looked the same, but closer examination showed differences. The Reagan stuff had not been replaced, and Mariah was not sorry about that.

She wondered if he had come in while she was at work or if someone had been given a list and come in on his behalf. It was probably her fault. If she hadn't panicked, if she hadn't told Big Mike he was in the Reserves and had been suddenly called to active duty and shipped to Afghanistan, they could have just broken up, and she could have gone home, leaving him to do his job. But when he was gone longer than the normal two days and no explanation had come, she had said the first reasonable thing she could think of to cover his absence.

John grumbled about this assignment, but underneath she'd seen that he didn't mind it half as much as he claimed. It was possible, though, that he'd seen a way out and taken it. Wherever he was, she hoped it was worth it. She just wished he'd given her some sort of explanation.

That was the crux of her problem. He had just disappeared on her. He was there one morning, next to her in bed, she went to work, and she came home to find him gone. No note, nothing. A week later, his things were gone. No explanation. He hadn't even left her a cover story she could use to explain his absence.

She had expected more of him.

Ironically, shortly after she'd told the Buy More he'd shipped out, she'd finally heard from Beckman that he had, indeed, been recalled. What Mariah didn't understand, though, was why the General had waited so long to tell her. Later, she realized the General had been arranging her own departure, one she inexplicably about-faced on in the wake of what Mariah had told the others.

Mariah dragged herself upstairs to change. She considered moving her clothes back to her old room, unable to face the empty half of the closet in what had started as his room. After she pulled on a pair of loose cotton pants and a t-shirt, she went downstairs, but she wasn't hungry. She made a cup of tea and took it to the sofa. She flipped on the evening news just to have some noise and stretched out.

She was nearly asleep when she heard a knock on the door. Ellie Bartowski was on her doorstep. "I'm not letting you sit over here alone and mope," she said, pushing past Mariah to enter.

"I wasn't moping." Mariah watched Ellie walk to the couch.

Ellie dropped onto the sofa, and Mariah closed the door and followed. "I know John's gone," the other woman said, "Chuck told me, but you can't just sit over here by yourself waiting for him to come back." Mariah was tempted to tell her that she most certainly could, but she held her tongue. "You can't just sit here and worry about him."

Mariah wasn't worried about him. She was mad as hell at him by this time, but she could hardly tell the other woman that without having to make a lot more explanations than would be prudent. "Ellie," she said gently, "I appreciate this, really I do, but I'm not in the mood to be social."

"I know," she said, "but I'm worried about you." Mariah was touched, and she nearly told Ellie so, but Ellie went on to talk about knowing Mariah had trouble with depression and how she should feel free to talk to her. Mariah knew she couldn't, at least not honestly. She thanked Chuck's sister and asked how the wedding plans were coming to distract the other woman.

Ellie was clearly happy as she talked about the wedding, and that only depressed Mariah more. She had never had that kind of relationship with anyone, certainly didn't have that kind of relationship with John, and now he was gone. She pretended an interest she really didn't feel in Ellie's plans. She suddenly realized Ellie had said something to her and was waiting for an answer. "Sorry?" she asked.

"I asked if you and John had thought about getting married."

Mariah shook her head. "We've never talked about it, and considering what my parents' relationship was like, I'm not sure I want to." She couldn't help thinking she wasn't going to have the opportunity, at least not with John.

"I've seen the way he looks at you," Ellie said.

It wasn't the first time Ellie had said that to her. Beating down the urge to cry, she momentarily distracted herself by wondering why she suddenly felt like crying at every little thing. After Gray, the tears had started, which had bothered her because she didn't cry, but this impulse to burst into tears over everything from running out of toothpaste to forgetting to get her car keys from her locker was new. Mariah gave her a sad smile and then deflected Ellie away from questions about John.

She asked how things were coming with Devon's mother. Mariah had been the one Ellie ranted to when Honey Woodcomb was overbearing about the wedding, and as she had known it would, it got Ellie off the subject of John. She made sympathetic noises, and she bit back a smile when she thought about how John would offer to kill the woman if Ellie only asked. Well, he wouldn't, really, since Ellie didn't know what he actually did for a living, but he would have made the offer to Chuck—complete with guarantee that either the body would never be found or that no one would ever know murder was involved. He wouldn't do it, though. Not without a justifiable reason for doing so.

At least she was pretty sure he really wouldn't.

Out of the blue, Ellie asked, "Have you eaten?"

Mariah knew she should have said yes, but she told the truth. "No."

Ellie made her go upstairs and put shoes on. She followed Mariah up to her room, and when she said she should change, Ellie pointed out what she was wearing looked little different than other casual clothes would.

Chuck was on the sofa when she followed Ellie over. He looked at her and frowned. Ellie explained that Mariah was going to eat with them and sailed into the kitchen, telling Mariah to have a seat.

"She's in mom-mode," Chuck said. "You might as well just surrender to her stronger will."

It was just the four of them, and Mariah was glad to not have Walker there, though she did wonder where the other woman was. It briefly occurred to her that she had avoided Mariah since John left, and that meant she must know where he was and why. Not that Mariah intended to ask, but she couldn't help wondering when she'd be sent back to Canada.

Over the next few weeks, Mariah did her job. It kept her occupied, so it was only at night that she was haunted by John, something made worse by living in the same apartment they had shared. When General Beckman finally accepted one of her calls, the older woman told her she would stay in place and take over the surveillance of the Intersect. Walker would get another partner to help with protection and with mission support. The General offered no news about John, and Mariah didn't ask.

She did as she was told, just as she had always done. She monitored Chuck, and she began to have some sympathy for John's complaints about the geek-speak. After she sat through a four-hour debate on Marvel versus DC, she was ready to throttle Chuck or Morgan—or both of them. As an avowed Marvel girl, she was surprised she wasn't more interested in the debate, but it was a revisit of the Great Sandwich Debate, as John termed it, which really made her want to puncture her eardrums with an ice pick. The five hours she listened to made her feel sorry for John who had had to listen to this for the better part of a year and a half.

Chuck, who knew who she was and what she did, came over one night and asked why she wasn't the one who took John's place. Mariah had felt a sharp moment of despair as she realized John really wasn't coming back. She told Chuck it was because she wasn't an American and because she lacked some of the skills John had provided. She finished with a lie, though it was one that might prevent Chuck from causing problems and had a kernel of truth in it: "I was never here to work on your detail, Chuck. I was here for John."

"But you worked with him," he said. "I don't see why you can't work with Sarah."

She looked at his earnest face, at those honest brown eyes, and she thought about what she had observed and what John had said to her several times. Chuck liked the comfort that came from the familiar, and he largely tended to assert himself when that familiar was disturbed. She said, "I work for an agency in another country with its own interests, Chuck. Those interests are not the same as the CIA's or the NSA's. I already know things about you I shouldn't, and assigning an operative other than me is just another way to protect you."

"But you worked with Casey," he repeated.

"That was different. When we worked together, it was because our agencies had a common goal, and we were the logical operatives."

Chuck sat back in John's chair, one of the few things of his that had been left in the apartment. "But ISI is, in part, an umbrella organization," he said. "Agents from various agencies worldwide get assigned to ISI."

"But ISI operatives don't usually get assigned to the NSA or the CIA," she said softly. That was true. As far as she knew, she was the only exception. "This is their operation."

"I don't like the agent they sent," he said.

She felt her heart hitch, but she masked her expression. "We can't discuss this," she told him. While she was sympathetic, she knew the surveillance on this room was now fed directly to Walker at Castle. Beckman had told her so during that one phone call.

Chuck slumped. "I thought we were friends." Mariah didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't. "Friends talk about their lives, Mariah, and there aren't many people I can talk to about this."

She hated how easily he could get to her with those sad eyes and that appeal to his lost private life. "I know, Chuck, but we really can't talk about this."

"Then tell me why they sent Casey away."

She sighed. "I can't."

"No," Chuck said as he sat up, "you won't."

"Look," she said sharply. "They didn't send him away. He was called back to duty, to his real job, because they needed him. That's all I can tell you."

"You're just like them," he said bitterly. "No one ever tells me the truth."

Mariah was pissed off enough that she said what she shouldn't: "Welcome to the club, Chuck." He shot her an angry, confused look. "They didn't tell me, either. I just came home from work one day, and John was gone."

"You didn't know he was going." It wasn't a question, but Mariah answered it nonetheless.

"No. I knew it was possible, even probable, but I didn't know he was leaving until he was already gone." She hoped that would salvage whatever trouble she had just landed herself in. Then again, maybe Beckman would just send her home as punishment. The sooner she got away from here, the better.

"This is what really went wrong with you two before, isn't it?"

She looked at him sadly. Nothing had gone wrong before. There had been no before. She and John had never met before this job. She sighed. One more lie, and if it helped, then it was probably worthwhile. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is."

Chuck left not long after. She continued to sit there and think. If they were already forwarding the surveillance from here to Castle, they could do the same with the Bartowski feeds. They didn't need her. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before, and she didn't know why the General, who surely had thought of it, had left her here for the time being. After all, Beckman had all kinds of excuses she could use while John was gone. Maybe, Mariah thought, she should pay Mona a visit after her shift the next day and talk to her father about exercising some of those options.

- X -

Casey leaned his chair back against the wall and put his feet up. After a month of hunting, his men were complaining about the lack of women and the lack of alcohol, and, quite honestly, he sympathized. As he sat outside the gutted house he'd taken as his quarters, he missed his celebratory scotch. But he still had his cigar, he reflected, drawing deeply on it. This particular job was finally done, and he sincerely hoped he might get some R & R before he got his next assignment.

He released the smoke, eyes narrowed, and wondered if he would be headed back to Los Angeles. He wouldn't mind getting back to civilization, and he certainly wouldn't mind getting back to Riah. He let himself get caught in memories. Hell, he'd even be glad to see Grimes if it got him back to Riah. Of course, they could decide to ship him to another part of the war or send him to chase down another warlord playing with Al Qaeda. They could decide to send him any number of places rather than send him home.

Casey wondered if Riah could come to him if he got some leave, wondered if she was in Canada or somewhere else, and he considered how to find out.

A man dropped into the seat next to him, and Casey's attention jerked back to his current surroundings. "Worth," he said, recognizing the Canadian operative. The man wore his country's infantry CADPAT, and a captain's insignia decorated his shoulders. He knew the man worked with CSOR, but the last he'd heard, Jeremy Worth was still ISI. It irritated him when men like Worth who weren't entitled to the uniform wore it. He supposed the CSOR assignment gave the man the right, but he still didn't like it.

"Casey."

He waited. He thought about offering the man a cigar, but they were for celebration purposes, and Worth hadn't been there.

The other man studied him, apparently hoped the same tactic would work on him, and Casey hid a smile. Riah was the only person who'd managed to crack him that way. He did grin when the man finally said, "Any idea why I've been sent to find you?"

Casey nearly made a remark about learning from the master, but then it sank in. Worth had been sent—for him. He shifted in his chair, amusement gone. "What do you mean, sent to find me?"

"I got a call from the DG," Worth said. "He handed me your picture, told me to find you and report your location when I did. Mind telling me what you've done to piss my boss off?"

If V. H. was pissed off at him, there were several possibilities, Casey realized, but they all revolved around Riah. He had left a note for her, Beckman had assured him she would make sure Riah knew he'd been called away, so he doubted V. H. thought he had abandoned her. V. H. knew they were sleeping together, so he further doubted the other man had sent Worth to find him because of that. It occurred to him that something might be wrong with Riah. He froze. When he could breathe again, he wondered how quickly he could get rid of Worth and safely call her.

"Wouldn't know," he said gruffly. He drew on the cigar again and thought hard. If she'd been hurt, Beckman would have told him—probably. Her father was unlikely to send an operative just to tell him that, though, and he felt dread settle in. If she'd been killed, he suspected Adderly would have simply seen to it he was notified. His chest tightened at the idea that that might be what Worth was there for. Even as he thought it, though, he dismissed it. Adderly wouldn't waste the expense or the time of his best operative for a simple notification, even if it was Riah.

Casey finally lifted a brow and asked, "Didn't he give you a clue?"

Worth laughed. "Not one, but I've rarely seen the man as angry as he was the day he sent me here."

Angry, not worried. Worried would mean something happened to Riah. Angry implied he thought Casey did something, probably to Riah. He grunted, still certain V. H. wouldn't have Worth hunt him down simply because he was sleeping with his daughter. He racked his brain for what he could have done to offend the man.

"Want to find out if he's still pissed off?" He looked up to see Worth holding out a secure satellite phone.

Casey instinctively wanted to say no. He couldn't say he was in a hurry to find out why Riah's father had gone to this much trouble to find him—and why he hadn't simply called General Beckman and asked. Casey assumed he hadn't if he had sent Jeremy Worth after him. On the other hand, Worth was going to call his boss and tell him he had found Casey regardless. Why not let the other man do it? "Not especially," he said, "but go ahead and report in."

He put his feet back on the ground as Worth placed the call. He scanned the camp they'd set up in the ruined village, listened as Worth went through the protocols to get through to Adderly. He finished his cigar and ground the butt out in the ashtray on the table before him. "Found him," Worth said. Casey waited. "I'm looking at him." A moment later, Worth held out the phone. "He wants to talk to you."

Casey took the phone, placed it to his ear, and identified himself.

"Call my daughter."

He frowned. That wasn't what he'd expected, and he nearly said so. "Why?"

Even across thousands of miles he could feel the other man's anger. "You left my daughter. She has no idea what happened to you, and she needs to hear from you."

Casey processed that. Riah, apparently, hadn't found his note—but considering he'd left it where she couldn't miss it, that made no sense—nor had General Beckman spoken to her. That still didn't explain why V. H. had gone to all this trouble to find him. There had to be more to it than Riah was worried and wanted to hear from him. Before he could formulate a response, Adderly continued.

"She assumed you'd been sent on an assignment until she came home from work and found your things gone. Care to explain that?"

Now Casey was completely baffled. "I—" he stopped. He had no intention of discussing this in front of an audience. "Worth, leave." The other man grinned and just made himself more comfortable. Casey glared at him, but it had no effect. Casey finally stood and stalked off. "I have no idea what's going on, V. H.," he said. "I left Riah a note explaining I'd been called back and that I was being sent overseas for a job. I did not, however, have my things moved out of the apartment."

The silence stretched, and Casey started to pace. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, forced himself to be still. He was still struggling with the idea that Beckman not only hadn't talked to Riah, but she had apparently taken his things. That meant she didn't intend to send him back to Los Angeles.

"You really need to call Mariah, Casey."

He looked over at where Worth still sat outside his quarters. "You didn't send your best operative to find me just to tell me this, V. H. What's going on?"

"Call Mariah."

That worry that had nagged him earlier was back. "Is she alright?"

"Call Mariah."

He felt the frustration grow, but he made a little effort to push it down. "I'm on a classified mission, V. H. I can't call her. Just tell me what's going on." He waited for the other man to answer, but the silence stretched. He was just about to demand Adderly tell him when the other man finally spoke, his voice dangerously soft.

"You were sleeping with my daughter, Casey."

He froze, and after a moment he made himself relax.

"That gives her some rights," her father continued. "One should be the right to common courtesy. Call her."

V. H. wasn't making threats, which Casey considered a good thing, especially since the man had resources he could send to see that Casey was seriously hurt or dead. Looking over at where Worth still sat, he realized he was looking at just such an asset. He returned to the idea that something was wrong with Riah. "Is she alright?"

"She is." Casey relaxed somewhat, his mind racing for what other reason could explain why Adderly was so adamant he call Riah. "She needs to hear from you, Casey. She really needs to talk to you, and I need you to give her that opportunity."

None of this made much sense to Casey. Riah knew the job. She knew he couldn't just drop what he was doing and deal with whatever it was she wanted to talk about. She had his number. She could have called him. He might not have been able to answer the call, but she could have left him a message if it was urgent. There was no need to get her father involved, and he couldn't imagine why she had done so. "Tell her to call me."

"That's just it." Adderly paused, and Casey was right back to being worried. He wondered why she apparently couldn't call him. "She won't."

That stopped Casey's thoughts. He tried to reason out why she apparently needed to speak to him but wouldn't call him. Adderly kept asserting she was alright, but he also insisted Casey talk to her. He decided to come clean with V. H. "We're getting orders any minute. I don't know where I'll be going, what I'll be doing. I don't know that I'll have the time to talk to her even if I get through to her. Why don't you just tell me what this is about?"

"You slept with my daughter, Casey," the other man repeated. "That's between you and Mariah, and you owe her. Mariah's still in L. A. covering your ass, and she needs to hear from you. She needs to talk to you, and you need to be the one who calls her."

Casey stared across the dirt road to where Worth was sprawled at the camp table. Riah had clearly not been released by the NSA if she was still in Los Angeles. He could try and catch her when he got off the phone with Adderly unless they called him for briefing on his next assignment. Since he hadn't heard from Beckman yet, he assumed he was going to stay with his Special Forces team for the moment. That meant he wasn't going home for a while. He wasn't sorry about that—he liked what he did here, the thrill of the chase, the rush of closing for the kill or capture—but only moments ago he had longed to see her. That was the paradox he had to negotiate.

"I'll call her," he said gruffly.

"See that you do," V. H. replied coolly and then disconnected.

He tossed the phone at Worth when he rejoined him. "You can go home now," Casey told the other man.

"Want to tell me why I've been searching this godforsaken region for you?" Worth asked lazily.

Casey gave him a stony look and a curt, "No."

Worth studied him. "If I were guessing—and I'm going to do just that—I'd say it had to do with Mariah. She's the only thing I've ever known to twist V. H. up." Casey kept his face blank, but he wasn't too surprised that the other man worked it out. "What did you do to the man's daughter?"

"Nothing," he grunted and gave the operative an even harder stare. He really didn't want to discuss Riah with this man, not least because he would surely report anything he said back to her father.

Before Worth could say more, Casey's second-in-command walked up and said, "Briefing in five."

He acknowledged the salute and dismissed the man. "I'm sure you can find your way home from here," he told Worth.

The Canadian grinned and nodded. "Happy hunting."

He nodded in turn and made his way to where his men were already gathered. He nodded at Miles and took his place. Afterward, when he went to retrieve his gear, he reflected that there would be no reunion with Riah for a while yet. They were headed to Iraq. He glanced at his watch, calculated the time in Los Angeles, and as he walked slowly toward the waiting transport, he pulled his phone and placed the call.

Her voice sounded odd when she answered, thick, and he felt a stab when he realized she sounded as though she'd been crying. "Riah?" he asked, and he waved back one of his men who approached him. She said nothing, so he repeated her name.

"John?" Her voice was a shaky whisper, one he could barely hear, and he wished desperately he was with her. He imagined several scenarios—Fulcrum had gone after her again, she was struggling with the PTSD, she had been hurt.

Another of his men walked toward him, Miles, this time, and he handed the younger man his duffel and motioned him off. "I don't have very long," he told her quietly. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine," she said, and he heard more strength in her voice this time. Perhaps her father had been overreacting, he thought. Maybe she had simply been missing him, and V. H. had misunderstood. "You?"

He nearly told her he missed her, but his men were looking speculatively at him as they waited to board the chopper. "I spoke to your father," he told her. "He's worried about you."

"He always worries about me." He heard a hint of something in her voice, but he dismissed it as her usual resentment over the way V. H. tried to manipulate her career to protect her. "I'm glad you're safe."

Something warm spread through him when she said that. Her voice had the soft tone she mainly used late at night when he held her to him before they went to sleep. He suddenly realized he'd give anything to be beside her at that moment. Instead, he was surrounded by his men and about to step on a helicopter to take him just that much further away from her. "Riah, listen," he said, and he dropped his voice, letting the men move on ahead of him. "I didn't have my things moved out. I think there was a misunderstanding or a miscommunication." Miles was gesturing for him to hurry up, and he began walking forward. He heard her draw breath to speak, but he cut in. "I have to go. I'm getting on a chopper. We need to talk, but I don't know when I'll be able to either call you again or see you."

Her okay was kind of shaky, and suddenly he didn't know what to say, so he simply hung up, unwilling to tell her he missed her now that he was close enough to his men for them to overhear. He knew saying it would comfort her. It was certainly true, and he had made a decision in Chicago—after Chicago, too—not to lie to her if he could help it, but he couldn't say something so personal in front of the men he commanded. He hoped she understood.

Several pairs of eyes looked at him, some amused, and some speculative. "Girlfriend?" Miles finally asked.

Casey grunted rather than answer. One of the lieutenants laughed and said, "Come on, Major! You've heard about our women. It's your turn."

He gave them a wry grin. "Unlike you ladies, I'm a gentleman." That raised raucous laughter, and he grinned wider. He had no intention of talking about Riah the way these men talked about their wives, mistresses, girlfriends or whatever woman they had spent some time with. There were several catcalls, but he stood firm, refused to even tell them her name, saying only that she was none of their business.

When they were in the air and half his men were sleeping, Miles leaned over and asked, "The blonde in the blue dress?" Casey frowned at him. "The photograph in your quarters," he explained.

He eyed the other man. He had kept Riah's photograph next to his bunk when he had quarters available. He carried it with him when he didn't. Casey realized he was curiously reluctant to confirm her identity for Miles, but then it occurred to him that Miles would still not know her name or how Casey knew her. He grunted an affirmative, and then closed his eyes to catch a little sleep. He presumed Miles did the same since he said nothing further.

Casey didn't sleep, though; he thought about Riah and about the two phone calls, about V. H. sending Worth to find him only to tell him to call her. He thought about the implication that Riah had needed to talk to him, and then he thought about how she had said virtually nothing.

In fairness, he hadn't given her the opportunity. V. H. had implied she needed to tell him something, but Casey couldn't figure what. If something had happened to Bartowski, he would have heard from Beckman or Walker. If Riah was hurt or ill, V. H. would have told him so rather than danced around whatever it was that had made him angry. For a moment, he entertained the notion that Riah was pregnant, but he dismissed it. They had been careful, and she was on the pill. Besides, he reasoned, if she was pregnant, she would have found a way to let him know.

He couldn't stop the image that popped into his head: Riah, rounded with child. Casey couldn't name the emotion spreading through him, but he realized he wanted that image to be real. He wondered what she would feel like. Would she be firm or soft? What would it feel like to touch her belly and feel his child move inside?

As quickly as those thoughts came, he squashed them. He'd made his choice long ago. Nothing had changed since he had turned his back on the notion of marriage, of fatherhood. As long as he was in this line of work, there would be no wife, no children, and since he couldn't imagine life without his vocation, those things would never be a part of his life. He knew it was for the best. Even if things had changed, he was getting too old to think about raising kids he would only shortchange with long absences or the possibility he could be killed. He also knew that the idea of Riah pregnant was just that, an idea. She wasn't pregnant or she would have said so. Perhaps something else was going on, but for the life of him, he couldn't imagine what. He would call her again when he had the chance, would wait until he had both the time and the privacy to talk to her. Perhaps whatever it was would have sorted itself out by then.


	5. Chapter 5

**Ghosts That Haunt—5**

As it turned out, Mariah didn't go to the Buy More the next day. She woke up feeling unwell, and when she went downstairs to make coffee, she wound up bent over the toilet. She threw up another three times, and after the third time, she decided to just go back to bed. She called Chuck and told him she was sick, and then she called the Buy More to tell them she wasn't well and wouldn't be in.

Every time she got up to eat something that day, she was nauseous. Ellie came over to check on her and bring her some soup, and Mariah was embarrassed that the second she smelled it, she had to rush for the bathroom. When she came back out, she swallowed down the nausea the scent caused, puzzled because the soup was, in fact, one of her favorites. Ellie took her temperature, which was normal, and then suggested perhaps she'd eaten something that gave her a tummy bug. She left Mariah the soup, told her to heat it up and eat some when she felt better. Then she left her after making her promise to call if she needed her.

When she woke the next day, Mariah felt fine and wrote it off as just something she ate after all.

It happened again three days later, and this time Mariah noticed it was smells that set her off every time. That seemed very odd to her. She made it to work, but when Jeff and Lester's lunch delivery order showed up, she shoved away from the Nerd Herd desk and ran, barely making it to the bathroom before she vomited. She made the run another three times that afternoon, and Chuck, apparently noticing her pallor, asked her if she was okay.

They had ridden in to work together since they worked the same shift. Chuck drove them home, and Mariah closed her eyes, feeling worn out and a little nauseous. Chuck tried to make her go home with him so Ellie could check her out. By then, Mariah had suspicions about what kept causing her bouts of illness.

She had called her aunt Lydia when she first started sleeping with John, had gone to her for an exam and a prescription for birth control pills, and Mariah knew she should call her now. She decided to find out if what she suspected was true before she did so, so she dressed as though she were going for a run and left the apartment. Ellie was on her way over, so she stopped, waited for Mariah to reach her.

"Chuck said you weren't feeling well."

Mariah shrugged. "No, I haven't felt very well today, but I feel better now. I thought I'd take a short run before dinner."

They made a little small talk, and then Ellie let her go. Mariah wasn't going for a run, though; she was headed to the local pharmacy. She walked slowly when she left the apartment complex, wanting to draw this out long enough to look like she had done what she'd told Ellie she intended. When she reached the store, she took her time finding what she wanted, read the labels more thoroughly than was necessary, chose what she wanted, stood patiently in the longest line, and then made her way slowly home. She considered herself lucky not to have met anyone from the Bartowski household when she let herself in the apartment.

Upstairs in the bathroom, she removed the box from the bag, read the instructions inside, followed them, and waited. Then she sat there on the side of the tub, stunned, and stared numbly at the white stick that claimed she was pregnant.

Her reaction seemed odd to her, perhaps because she felt like she was looking at herself from somewhere outside. She knew it was just shock. She seized for a moment, afraid she'd have a panic attack, and she did what she had been taught to try and ward it off: breathed carefully but not too deeply, focused on happy thoughts. She had an uptick of panic for a brief moment when she realized the idea she was pregnant was a happy thought.

When she felt under control once more, she considered what came next: facing her parents and telling them, though she didn't look forward to dealing with her mother given the circumstances; telling Emma, which would go relatively well; and then there was telling John.

Or not.

Mariah closed her eyes. John was a whole separate layer of fear. He had made it perfectly plain he didn't want her to get pregnant, yet she had managed to do it anyway. Now he was gone without having left a single word for her. There were other emotional layers: the selfish layer where she feared what this meant to her career, the layer that doubted she could do this on her own, the one that worried she'd make any child of hers a bigger mess than she herself was.

She needed to talk to her aunt. Lydia would help her decide what to do, and, best of all, she wouldn't be judgmental, would simply listen while Mariah sorted through her mess. When Lydia picked up, she asked if she could come see her.

Her aunt paused before asking why. Mariah found she couldn't get the words out. "Mariah, are you okay?"

She heard the concern in her aunt's voice, and she burst into tears. "We're coming over," Lydia said, and Mariah felt relieved until she realized what her aunt had said.

"We?" she asked cautiously.

"Your mother's here."

She panicked. "No!" She didn't want anyone at the NSA to know just yet, and she could hardly take her mother and her aunt upstairs to have this conversation. Even if she did, she suspected her mother's outrage would be loud enough for the downstairs surveillance to pick it up. "Let me come to you."

"Mariah—"

"Lydia, the apartment has eyes and ears. I don't need an audience for this."

A long silence followed. Then Lydia gave her instructions for how to find her apartment.

* * *

It was Ariel Taylor who opened the door and hugged her when she burst into tears, and it was her mother who sat with her on the couch and held her while she cried. Mariah had told no one in her family that John had left, but she supposed her father surely knew. Apparently, he hadn't shared the information with her mother. Ariel asked her about John, asked if he'd done something to her, and Mariah cried that much harder when she did. When she finally cried herself out, when she finally had herself under control, she sniffled and then baldly told her mother, "I'm pregnant."

She felt her mother stiffen. "Oh, Mariah," she said softly, and hugged her tightly. "Does Casey know?"

Mariah shook her head, and more tears came. "He's gone, and I don't know where he is."

Ariel pulled her close again. "Mariah," she said softly. "What do you mean he's gone?"

She explained, told her mother that things had been going well, and then he was just gone, his things not long afterward.

Lydia handed her a glass of water and sat down on the other side of her. "I assume you took a home pregnancy test?" Mariah nodded. Her aunt said, "You'll come in early with me, and we'll run some tests, check a few things out, okay?"

"I have to work tomorrow," she said, despite knowing the Buy More was the least of her worries at the moment.

"I promise to have you to the job on time," Lydia said with a gentle smile. "Mariah, do you have any idea how far along you might be?"

She tried to count back, but she couldn't remember when she'd last had her period. Lydia asked questions, and Mariah answered them. She told Lydia about what she now knew was morning sickness and about how her clothes were beginning to get a little snug. She told her she tired easily, especially in the afternoons.

When Lydia finally quit asking questions, her mother, who had largely been silent, asked, "Have you thought about what you want to do?" Mariah looked up at her and shook her head. She was still getting used to the idea that she was pregnant. She hadn't had time to think about whether she wanted to have a baby or not. As soon as she thought it, though, she knew she did and said so. "Unlike a lot of women," her mother said, "you can at least afford to raise a child on your own. It'll mean significant changes in your career, and you should consider that. If you don't want the child, well, there are options."

"I need to think about it, Mum," she said. There was no thinking about, though. She said what she did solely to placate her mother.

Ariel hugged her and kissed her cheek. "Whatever you want, Mariah. We'll help you."

And that, Mariah thought, was why despite how rarely her mother had been there when she was growing up, despite how often she lectured her about what she should do, despite how her mother disapproved of so much of her life, Mariah loved her. When she absolutely needed her, her mother was generally there, generally supportive, generally protective.

Lydia suggested she spend the night with them. Mariah nodded, suddenly too weary to go home, and she put on the pajamas her aunt found for her and crawled into bed. She called Sarah Walker and told her she was staying with her aunt since her mother was visiting. Mariah nearly panicked when the other woman asked how she was feeling, relaxed only when Walker went on to say Chuck had told her she hadn't felt well lately. Mariah said she seemed to have some low-grade flu or something.

For once, she went right to sleep and stayed that way until morning.

* * *

The questionnaire Lydia had her complete seemed endless. It also drove home the fact that she knew very little about John when she was unable to answer much of anything other than date of birth, race, and occupation. She listed his military service there rather than his NSA affiliation since she had no idea who might see her paperwork in Lydia's practice. She knew nothing of his medical history, knew nothing of his family history other than his father was deceased.

Lydia confirmed her pregnancy, talked to her about diet, about exercise, about taking prenatal vitamins, and she talked to Mariah about the changes her body would go through, about what would happen emotionally, and about the need for regular checkups.

When Mariah left, she had a lot to think about, so she remained distracted most of the day. It didn't help that her father called midmorning and told her to phone him on her break. Her mother had, apparently, lost no time calling him. When she talked to him, confirmed she was pregnant, he offered to find John for her. She told him no. One thing she had decided was that she didn't want John coming back solely because he felt responsible for her condition. If he came back, she wanted him to do so because he wanted her.

She didn't want to admit that his paranoia about the chance of her getting pregnant made her want to keep him away until it was too late to do anything other than have the baby. It wasn't fair, she knew, but it was how she felt. John had made it very clear that he didn't want children. Mariah did, though she admitted this wasn't the way she wanted them.

Mariah tried hard not to think about the possibility that if he knew, she might never see or hear from him again.

A pounding headache plagued Mariah most of the day. Lydia had told her to scale back her caffeine intake, so she had cut out coffee. On her afternoon break, she went to the coffee place down from Orange Orange where, after beating back temptation, she ordered a vanilla bean smoothie. She sat at one of the tables and read her morning newspaper.

"Hi."

Mariah looked up to see a blond, blandly handsome man in a Large Mart vest. She returned to her reading.

"Mind if I join you?"

She looked up to say she did, only to find he'd already taken the chair opposite her.

"So you work at Buy More?" Since the clothes and her name badge made that obvious, she ignored his question, kept her eyes trained on the page in front of her. "I'm Tom, by the way. Tom Baker."

She snorted at that. "As in _Doctor Who_?" she asked, but kept her attention on her newspaper.

"Ah, you do speak," he said.

She ignored him.

"So," he tried again, "I'm new here, and I wondered if you might like to show me around, maybe go to dinner."

"I have a boyfriend," she said, taking care to sound bored beyond belief, and turned the page. "He's six-four and could kill you with his thumb—would, if he knew you were pestering me."

He put a finger on the top of her newspaper and bent it down. "I don't see a boyfriend."

She stole one of John's grunts and slipped the newspaper out from under Baker's finger. She folded it and tucked it under her arm before she picked up her purse and cup. She stood and walked away, hoped he stayed seated because she wasn't about to look around and possibly encourage him.

That evening, Chuck bummed a ride home with her, but she didn't mind the company. What she did mind was seeing the man from the coffee shop entering an apartment across the courtyard. She made a mental note to find out when that apartment had changed tenants.

After she had changed and eaten a light supper, she settled on the couch with her aunt's book. Several years earlier, Lydia had written a bestselling pregnancy book, and Mariah had swung by a bookstore and bought a copy. She had removed the dust jacket and left it upstairs to help hide what she was reading in case she was being watched. She flipped on the television to one of the twenty-four hour news channels to provide a little noise, but she set the volume low enough it was simply a murmur.

She was engrossed in her reading when she heard a knock on the door. She figured it for Ellie or Chuck, so she didn't drop the alarm panel and look to see who was outside. When she opened the door, she wished she had. "Mr. Baker."

He gave her a chagrined smile. "I just realized we're neighbors."

Mariah chose not to reply.

"I was serious about dinner, by the way," he said, and he gave her what was probably a charming smile, though it did absolutely nothing for her.

"I was serious about the boyfriend," she retorted, and moved to close the door.

"Wait!"

She stopped, waited, and was disgusted that she did so.

"We got off on the wrong foot," he said. "Maybe we should try again."

Mariah gave him a hard stare. "I don't think so." She closed the door, ignored his further protests.

She called Sarah Walker, explained that there was a new tenant in the complex and asked her to check him out. She gave her Baker's name and description, and then she ended the call.

* * *

Two days later Mariah was bent over a laptop at the Nerd Herd desk. Anna Wu, who was also at the desk, said a soft, "Wow." Mariah looked up and then followed Anna's line of sight. A woman with a huge bouquet of roses approached the desk. Mariah felt a stab of jealousy that the other woman had someone who thought enough of her to send such gorgeous flowers. She wondered who that was since the Taiwanese girl and Morgan Grimes were currently on the outs.

"Mariah Taylor?" the woman asked, and Mariah blinked, shocked. Then warmth spread through her. They must be from John, she thought.

She tipped the delivery woman, and then she stood there, smiled like an idiot. They were beautiful, big, deep red blooms just beginning to open. Chuck walked up and said, "I see you heard from Casey." Her smile broadened.

Jeff Barnes raised the first doubts for her, though, by asking, "What's the occasion?"

Mariah's smile faded a bit. It was a good question. John had only sent her flowers once, and she suspected that had been more about telling her he was coming to take her to dinner than for her birthday. She plucked up the envelope with the card, and her face hardened when she tore it open and read the enclosed card: _What does a guy have to do to get you to go to dinner with him? _ It was signed _Tom_. She made a disgusted sound and scooped up the flowers. "Right. I've had more than enough of this."

She stalked out of the store and headed toward Large Mart. She walked in and headed for the customer service desk. "Where can I find Tom Baker?" she asked. She strode to electronics where she saw him leaning against the display case holding MP3 players. He straightened as she bore down on him. She shoved the flowers at him and bit out, "Do the words _restraining order _mean anything to you?"

He grinned at her. "I take it you didn't like the flowers."

She narrowed her eyes. "Leave me alone," she ground out. "For the last time, I'm taken."

His grin broadened. "Really? You don't wear a ring, and I haven't seen you with anyone."

"Dude, remember when we told you about that big, scary guy from the Buy More?" someone squeaked to Mariah's left. She didn't turn to see who, kept her furious stare on Baker, who turned to set the vase of roses on the counter behind him. "That's his girlfriend. You _really_ don't want him pissed off at you."

"Frankly, you don't want me pissed off at you, either," she said tightly. "Leave me alone. Got it?"

"Going to sic your invisible boyfriend on me?" Her temper ticked up at the taunt, especially since she couldn't send John after him. He crossed his arms, clearly not in the least intimidated. "You can't blame a guy for trying," he said, and a hint of a smirk crossed his features.

"Oh, but I can," she ground out and turned to walk away. She saw that Chuck had followed her, but she ignored him as she walked past him. Sarah Walker was there, too, and Mariah got the feeling there was something going on here she ought to know. She was too angry to question it then, though.

She seethed the rest of the day. After a couple of days, she began to relax, thought he had finally gotten the message, but he caught her on her way to break one afternoon, and cornered her against the concrete wall. "Look," he said, "you and I both know there's no boyfriend, so why don't you be a little more friendly." He raised his brows. "Let me take you to dinner tonight."

Mariah felt her chest tighten, knew it was partly panic at how he crowded her and partly pain that it was true there was no boyfriend. "Approach me again," she said through gritted teeth, used the anger she felt toward John to lend some weight to her words, "and I'll file a complaint."

He gave her that All-American smile, and she had an almost overwhelming urge to hit him. He stroked her cheek, and she flinched. "I like a woman with a little fire," he said, and she was certain most women would find that voice of his sexy. It left her cold and more than a little tense. "You're pretty when you're angry."

"Leave me alone." She hoped that came out with authority. At least he backed off, let her go where she was headed, and she decided she'd spend future breaks in the Buy More.

A few days later, she came home to more flowers and a note on her doorstep. She opened the note only long enough to see his name at the bottom before she picked up the daisies and walked to the dumpster, shoved them inside before returning to let herself into her apartment. Chuck, who had been with her, followed her. "Mariah," he said. "What's going on?"

Turning to him, she snapped, "Our new neighbor, the one who works at Large Mart, keeps hitting on me."

Chuck's mouth worked a second, but no words came out. Finally, he said, "About that."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Awesome likes him. Apparently, they're both into extreme tiddlywinks or something." He bit his lip nervously. "I know Ellie invited you to dinner tonight, and he's going to be there."

She ground her teeth a moment. "Tell your sister I'm not feeling well."

Chuck took her by her arms, but she jerked away from him. "Mariah, please come. I don't like him any more than you do, and neither does Sarah. Ellie certainly doesn't like him."

Mariah sighed. "Really, Chuck, I'm tired, and I don't want to sit at the same table with that man."

"I get it, Mariah. I get that you miss Casey, and I get that Tom's persistent—and maybe a little creepy—but Ellie's worried about you, and she'll only worry more if you don't come."

That was certainly true, Mariah thought. Ellie was her self-appointed watchdog, and if she didn't show for dinner, Ellie would come over after her. "You don't play fair, Chuck."

He grinned at her. "Does that mean you're coming?"

She nodded and glanced at the clock. "I don't suppose you'd wait for me to change and then walk me over?"

He dropped onto the couch and picked up the remote control.

She flipped through the clothes in her closet, realized she was going to have to buy new ones before much longer, and to hold the panic that thought induced at bay, she finally pulled a French blue cotton blouse from its hanger. She buttoned it and pulled on a pair of jeans that used to be loose on her but now were snug in the waist, realized that when she had to start wearing looser clothing, it would be harder to hide that she was pregnant. She fished through her jewelry box for a pair of cufflinks, located a set of plain gold ovals, one slightly bent, from the turn of the twentieth century that she had bought in a vintage clothing store several years earlier. She threaded them through the French cuffs of the blouse and stepped into a pair of simple sandals, and considered how to get her father to recall her before she had to reveal that she was having a baby.

Downstairs, Chuck sat looking at a book, and Mariah froze on the last step when she realized what he held. He'd heard her on the stairs and stood, the book in his hand. He lifted it but said nothing. She walked to him, took it, looked at the spine, and said, "My aunt is Lydia Pentangeli."

"So you're reading this because she wrote it?" he asked. Mariah could hear the plea to confirm his conclusion behind the words.

"In part," she said. She studied him a moment. She could read his face plainly, could see concern, could spot a slight panic in his eyes. She wondered at that panic, wondered if he'd do something foolish, wondered if he'd tell John, and for the first time it occurred to her that he might know where John was. She sucked in a breath, felt tears well, and made herself not ask. Then, she felt her own panic, closed her eyes tightly a moment, and said, "I don't want anyone to know, Chuck."

"So you're . . . ?" he asked, waving a hand at her abdomen. She nodded. "And Casey?"

She shook her head. Then she chewed her lower lip, thought carefully. "I don't know where he is, Chuck, and I have no way to get in touch with him. Even if I could, I'm not sure I would."

"Wh-why not?" She could read the confusion on his face, in his eyes, and she wished she had simply said nothing.

"He doesn't need to worry about me if he's deep undercover, and he is, or I would have heard from him by now." It was a lie, she acknowledged, but until she was told otherwise, she would maintain the cover. "In the meantime, I'm not ready to tell anyone, so I'm going to ask you to keep this to yourself. Don't even tell Sarah, okay?"

"Ellie—"

"Not even Ellie," she cut him off. "I'm still getting used to it myself. I'm just not ready to share it, especially since I can't tell John. He really should have been the first to know."

When she had his promise not to tell anyone, they went to the Bartowski apartment together. Ellie gave them an odd look when they walked in, and even Sarah Walker's look was speculative. Mariah had clearly changed from work, something Chuck was now on his way to do. Mariah asked if there was anything she could do to help Ellie, and she was put to work finishing setting the table. As she placed the last fork, Devon and Baker came in, laughing. She was suddenly tense, and she wondered why her reaction to Baker was such strong dislike.

Devon introduced the two of them, and when Baker held out his hand and said, "Call me Tom," she gave him a placid stare and ignored the hand. She didn't much care that she was being rude. She watched his smile fade, and he dropped his hand. She joined Ellie in the kitchen. The other woman looked at her oddly, but she gave Mariah a task to keep her in the kitchen while the others sat in the living room. Once a conversation was underway among the others, Ellie quietly asked what was wrong. Mariah sighed, dropped her shoulders and shook her head. She told Ellie, "I know I was rude, but the guy has been hitting on me for a couple of weeks."

Ellie grimaced and told Mariah, "That's tacky. It's a shame John isn't here to set him straight."

Mariah fought back tears a moment. She wished desperately that he was there, wished he would at least call so she could hear his voice. As time passed, she knew he had left her, but while her emotions see-sawed all over the place, she could use some reassurance. At this point, she would settle for a confirmation that they were finished just to get rid of the uncertainty that gnawed at her.

They sat down to dinner, and Mariah was glad Ellie had put out water glasses in addition to wine glasses. It made it easier for her since she wouldn't have to drink the wine, which would lead to questions she really didn't want to answer. She was seated between Devon and Baker, but at least Chuck was across from her.

Ellie had prepared three courses, and as the first was being replaced by the second, Baker said, "Well, Mariah, I finally get to have dinner with you."

She gave him her own version of John's Death Glare and said nothing.

Ironically, it was Devon who told him, "Whoa, dude. Not cool. Mariah's taken."

Baker smiled, "So I've been told, but I haven't seen the guy."

"He's serving his country," Mariah tersely explained.

Ellie, who was returning to her seat, detoured to the bookcase and took down a picture frame. There were four photographs in the frame, one of Ellie and Devon, one of Chuck and Sarah, one of Ellie and Chuck, and one of John and Mariah. She hadn't seen that picture before, but she recognized the day it was taken. About a month before John had left, they had gone to the beach. Ellie had apparently caught them when they walked away from the others for a little privacy. John leaned down toward her, had been about to kiss her, his hands at her waist and hers on his chest. There had been a picture of just Mariah from that day in her living room, but it had vanished when John did.

Baker nodded at the picture and then gave Mariah a sly smile. "You weren't kidding about him being a big guy."

She gritted her teeth and checked her temper. He'd made it sound like John was fat, and that picture was evidence that he was anything but.

Ellie took the frame from him, and Sarah started talking about a customer who had brought a set of triplets into the Orange Orange that day and the mayhem they had created. Mariah pushed the food around her plate, missed John even more, and wondered if Ellie would give her a copy of that photograph.

The rest of dinner passed a bit more pleasantly, and Mariah began to relax. Unfortunately, Baker noticed she wasn't drinking the small amount of wine she'd allowed Devon to pour in her glass. The man pointed it out, asked what was wrong with it. Mariah's jaw locked, and she bit out that there was nothing wrong with it. She had a moment of inspiration and said, "I take antidepressants."

Chuck came to her rescue, or at least she thought he was coming to her rescue, but he blew it by asking, "Have you heard from Casey?"

She wished he'd asked anything else, especially since he knew she hadn't, and her face likely showed it. She supposed it was better than him having said something that exposed her secret. She shook her head, made a half-hearted comment about how John couldn't easily call.

Baker, of course, slid in, "These days soldiers can call home pretty easily, what with Skype, satellite phones and all. Then there's e-mail, Facebook—but I suppose you know that."

Mariah turned to glare at him. She knew that, and she was sorely tempted to stick the steak knife Ellie had had her set the table with in him. She'd had more than enough of the man, and it didn't help that he seemed determined to taunt her about John. She focused a moment on her breathing, willed herself to calm down, wondered, briefly, why her emotions ran from one extreme to another and nearly beyond her control. "I'm well aware of that," she finally said. "John's job is such that it isn't possible."

There was a look in Baker's eyes that made her want to hit him. She studied the even, non-descript features of his face, and those stereotypical blue eyes of his laughed at her. There was something about him she was missing, and that look, all hidden amusement at her expense, told her there was something else going on there. She'd known there was something off with the guy, and now she had warnings signaling all over the place. Admittedly, she had been the first to bring John up in their encounters, but Baker hadn't backed off. She took a closer look at him: he was arrogant, fit, deceptively muscular, and he had the bearing she should have recognized the moment she met him.

She was staring at John's replacement.

Tearing her eyes away from him, she was glad the conversation had moved on without her. She fought back the stabbing sense of loss, struggled against the impulse to burst into tears, and then she caught Chuck's attention and raised an angry brow. Chuck flushed dark red, and she knew her guess was right. With everything else, she had been too distracted to pick up on what Baker's presence meant.

Suddenly very, very tired, Mariah couldn't help but wish dinner had reached a stage where she could easily excuse herself and go home. She refused dessert when it was offered, told Ellie she couldn't possibly eat any more. She helped Ellie serve, though, in part to move away from Baker who had taken to leaning toward her as he spoke to Devon. Mariah's claustrophobia was rearing its head, and being able to get up and breathe freely felt good. She also helped Ellie clear the table to keep from having to sit with the others in the living room where she suspected Baker would maneuver it so that he was seated next to her.

She told her brain to shut up, but Baker unnerved her. When the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Mariah told Ellie she was tired and thought she would just go home. Ellie made a token protest, but she relented when Mariah told the other woman she wasn't sleeping well and thought she'd go home and go to bed. She sailed through the living room, saying a general good night as she made her way to the door.

Thankful Baker hadn't followed her, she let herself in the apartment and set the security system. She went upstairs to the room she had shared with John and just rolled into a ball on his side of the bed. She felt stupid when she burst into tears.

When her BlackBerry rang, she almost didn't answer it. She blew her nose on a tissue from the box she'd grabbed on the way up and, as it continued to ring, answered.

Mariah thought at first she was having an auditory hallucination. She could swear it was John's voice in her ear, but she was pretty sure that was impossible. "Riah?" he repeated, and she heard an anxious note and what sounded like the chop of helicopter rotor blades in the background.

"John?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don't have very long." She felt her heart pound, felt euphoric joy dancing through her. "Are you okay?"

She knew she was grinning like an idiot. "Fine," she said. "I'm fine. You?"

"I spoke to your father," he said, and her spirits plummeted. "He's worried about you."

"He always worries about me," she said. Surely, her father hadn't told John she was pregnant? "I'm glad you're safe." She was so relieved to hear from him, to know he was on the other end of the phone, and to know that, apparently, he'd thought of her—even if her father had prompted him.

"Riah, listen," he said, and she heard other voices in the background. "I didn't have my things moved out. I think there was a misunderstanding or a miscommunication."

She started to ask if he'd talked to General Beckman, but he cut in. "I have to go. I'm getting on a chopper. We need to talk, but I don't know when I'll be able to either call you again or see you."

Mariah barely had time to say okay let alone anything else before he had to hang up and go.

On the one hand, she had a ridiculous smile plastered on her face. On the other, her all-too-brief conversation with John had to be one of the most unsatisfactory discussions she'd ever had. She should have told him, but the reasons she'd given Chuck were valid still, very much so. He was clearly not coming home any time soon, and she'd bet he had been given yet another assignment. But he'd called her, and that had to mean something.

Mariah went downstairs for some water, and there was a knock on the door as she was headed back up the stairs. She'd learned her lesson, so she dropped the panel and looked at the screen it exposed. Baker stood on her doorstep, but she had no intention of opening the door to him. She was pushing the button to raise the panel again when he said loudly enough for her to hear, "Agent Adderly, we need to talk."

His reference to her status and her actual surname confirmed her earlier guess. She stood there, debated. Talking to John had been unsatisfactory, but she didn't want to ruin the bit of happiness it had given her by talking to Baker. On the other hand, if he was taking John's place with the Intersect, she would have to deal with him sooner or later. She sighed, and then she punched in the code to turn off the alarm system and opened the door. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her rather than invite Baker inside.

It didn't much surprise her when he said, "I think we should have this conversation in private." He gestured at her door.

She folded her arms over her chest. "I'm sure you're aware my living room is no more private than this. We'll talk here."

He eyed her for a moment, and Mariah was pleased that this time he appeared to be all business. "I'm here to take Major Casey's place."

Mariah nodded.

Baker seemed startled by her own lack of surprise at his announcement, and he obviously waited for her to say something. When she didn't, he continued, "I expected to move into the Major's quarters."

She gave him a hard stare. _Over my dead body_, she thought, though she immediately acknowledged that was a decided possibility given what she knew about Chuck. She maintained the stare.

"Alternate quarters were found for me."

Mariah nodded once more.

"I need access to some of the Major's equipment."

She lifted a brow. John's equipment was mostly gone, and she could think of no real reason why Baker would need access to what was left. Surely the General had provided the same to the man in front of her. "Give me a list, and I'll see you get what you need."

"It would just take a moment," he began, but Mariah cut him off.

"You're not coming in. Not now, not ever."

He frowned, and she noted he looked pissed off. That actually helped her regain some of the happy feeling John's call had given her. "We're on the same side here."

She gave him a "hmph."

"Look—"

"No," she cut in sharply. "You look. I've always been a silent partner in this operation. It isn't my primary directive. I don't have to play nicely with you, and I won't, quite frankly." Why she thought _Resistance is futile_, she wasn't really sure, but she was just angry enough to hold a hard line. If nothing else, she was certain Baker would run straight to Beckman, and that just might gain her a few more explanations than she had so far been given.

He put his hands on his hips, and he looked seriously pissed off. Mariah didn't much care. "I was told you would cooperate."

"That depends on what you need." Perhaps she was being petty, but it felt good. She was mad as hell about John, and it was nice to have a convenient target on whom to vent her frustration. That she felt Baker deserved it for the games he'd tried to play with her absolved her from feeling guilty.

"I understand you were posing as Casey's girlfriend."

"It wasn't a pose."

He gave her a sort of crooked, knowing smile that made her want to knock it right off him. "According to Beckman, it was."

"I'm not John's cover." It might have been more accurate to say she was no longer John's cover, she supposed, but she would go with the truth as it stood. Beckman knew circumstances had changed, and Mariah wondered why she hadn't told Baker.

"And I suppose Casey whispered secrets to you at night?" he asked with what Mariah thought was a nasty tone of voice.

Her jaw went rigid, and her eyes narrowed. She was getting really tired of people assuming John spilled secrets when they were in bed. Anyone who knew him would know better. "Firewall," she said tartly. "I have to protect my agency as much as he has to protect his."

"Then why are you still here?" he asked. "They had to move someone else out of the complex to get me in. Frankly, this apartment has the better vantage point."

She shrugged, tired of this. It was going nowhere, and she wanted to go inside and close the door—with Baker on the other side of it. She was tempted to ask if the agent was jealous, but that would be juvenile. She decided not to answer his question, especially given she wasn't at all sure why she was still there herself. Beckman could have just had her moved out when she took John's things—and she assumed it was Beckman who had removed his things since John had disavowed any knowledge that it had been done.

In that moment, it finally occurred to Mariah that she didn't know how John knew what she had thought.

The answer was simple, though: _Dad_.

Her parents had clearly been meddling in her life again. Her mother had called her father, and John had admitted he'd talked to him. Her father must not have told John about the baby, though, since John had said nothing about it. On the other hand, it had been clear from the background noise that John hadn't been alone, and she doubted he would bring the subject up unless he was—assuming he actually knew.

"You can play the stone-cold bitch all you want," Baker said, cutting in on her convoluted thoughts. "You're going to have to cooperate with me, and that means I need access."

"Access to what?" she asked, choosing to play ignorant.

"I told you. Major Casey's equipment."

She gave him a hard glare. "Have Beckman make a formal request." With that, she turned and went inside. When Baker tried to follow, she put an elbow in his gut, and when he doubled over, she shoved him back. What she had wanted to do was plant an elbow in his face, black his eye or break his nose, but she didn't want to deal with the fallout from doing so. She closed and locked the door, set the security system once more.

It didn't occur to her until she was in bed that she had probably not only made an enemy but had just given Beckman a reason to send her home. She wasn't entirely sorry on either account.

* * *

Author's Note:

One of the reasons "Forging a Life" ended where it did is this and the next few parts. When "Chuck vs. the Tic Tac" aired, I went, "Crap!" This and the next two hundred pages were already long written, and I decided they were definitely not going to work.

The next morning, I had to leave for Louisville, Kentucky, and I got up still trying to figure out what to do with this monster story that now wasn't going to work. I had a five-hour drive to think about that, a couple of nights with some fine bourbon and my laptop when I wasn't in meetings, but I still decided that the way this plays out would be too much coincidence even in the realm of fiction. I confess, though, that when I left Louisville for Chicago and the second leg of the trip, I was still trying to find a way around the reveal.

Because this bit of the story line threads through the rest, when I decided to post this version, I intended to rewrite and edit the baby out. Then, I decided it was too much work to do so, and it was pretty pivotal to a couple of things that come up later on. I have, therefore, decided to be a lazy writer and leave it as it was originally written.

Throw things at me if you like. I have a very thick skin.

Having said that, we get back to Casey next week, but for the next several weeks you'll get both POVs since there are things in Mariah's that are important to know down the road and I can't figure out how to do it without having to add a lot of explanation later.


	6. Chapter 6

**Ghosts That Haunt—6**

The next morning Beckman's face filled the large screen on the wall while Mariah sat at the table eating breakfast. She set her fork down and acknowledged the General. She had some trepidation, certain Baker had reported back what she'd said to him and that she'd been uncooperative.

"Miss Adderly," the woman said tartly. "I understand you met Agent Baker last night."

"I met him a couple of weeks ago," she corrected just to be pissy. "For the record, had he identified himself to me then, he might have found me a bit more accommodating. Also for the record, General, I am quite happy to leave this apartment and even Los Angeles. We can say John's going back to military service permanently, and I'm moving to base housing where he will be stationed. I'm certain ISI would be pleased to have me back with them rather than seconded to the NSA."

"That will not be necessary," the General said, her voice taking on a more neutral tone which raised several suspicions for Mariah. "I would, however, like to hear more about why you refused to assist Agent Baker."

Mariah considered her words. It would do her no good to be snotty about it, and that was certainly her first instinct. If she played this right, she might even get Beckman to tell her more about where John was. "I had only his word for who he is and what he's doing here, General. John would not appreciate, nor I assume would you, my simply opening up his home and access to NSA equipment to someone without verifying his legitimate need to do so."

She saw something spark in Beckman's eyes. She wasn't sure what it was, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know. "He has a legitimate need, Miss Adderly, but your point is well taken." The General leaned forward. "I think, for the time being, that we will continue to deny him access to the apartment. However, if you are asked for surveillance feeds, supply those to him. If he needs anything else, we will let you know."

Reading between the lines, Mariah considered the possibility that Beckman wasn't at all comfortable with Baker. Then she reconsidered. He wouldn't be there, presumably, if the General didn't trust him. She nodded an acknowledgement.

When Beckman sat back, the General reached out to a keyboard. Mariah saw that the cameras in the living area of her apartment powered down. She assumed the audio went off as well. "Unless there's surveillance I'm unaware of, Miss Adderly, your location is now secure. We need to talk."

Mariah did not like the sound of that at all, especially not when she considered what the likely topic of that conversation might be. She'd been less than discrete when she and Chuck had spoken of her pregnancy in this very space.

"I have spoken to your father," the other woman said.

It occurred to her that her father had suddenly turned remarkably chatty with the Americans, and it irritated her that apparently he felt compelled to talk to everyone but her. Mariah sat and waited for the General to continue.

When it was clear she would make no response, Beckman spoke. "You should be aware that I had your apartment searched a few days ago."

Her chin lifted. "And what did you find?"

"The team who removed Major Casey's personal belongings reported that the two of you were sharing a bedroom. The more recent search revealed some rather interesting reading material on your night stand and prenatal vitamins in your kitchen. Is there something I should know, Miss Adderly?"

Instinctively, she nearly denied it. Instead, Mariah sat back and stared at the other woman's image. "I assume that question is rhetorical since you clearly know the answer."

"Are you pregnant?"

She stared back at the other woman. There had to be a reason she was asking, given she had as much as admitted she knew, and it interested Mariah that she had shut down the surveillance before doing so. She wondered why the General didn't want anyone to know they'd had this conversation.

"Let's assume that you are," Beckman finally said as the silence stretched. "Let's also assume that the Major is responsible." Mariah said nothing, not even when the other woman lifted a brow. "Does Casey know?"

Face impassive, Mariah considered her options and weighed possible responses on the General's side. If she told the truth and the General wanted to permanently separate her from John, she could get the equivalent of a deportation order. That, however, would not necessarily prevent Mariah from finding him and telling him. If she seriously wanted them apart, Mariah might be going home in a box—or simply disappear, her knowledge that Chuck Bartowski was the Intersect serving as justification. If she lied and said yes, then there were other possible scenarios. She breathed in slowly. Then there was always the possibility that the General didn't care one way or another. _Yeah, right_, the sarcastic little voice in her head said. John was her pet agent. Anything that potentially distracted him from the job was a danger to the General and to her projects.

"Your father requested I have Casey call you. I presume that means he doesn't know."

She already knew her father had meddled, and while she considered options for responding, she watched General Beckman relax her posture. "You've served us well, Mariah," she said. "I realize you uprooted your life, I know you've had difficult issues to deal with, and you've managed to maintain your professionalism." Mariah heard the unvoiced _but_, and she wondered about the General's use of her first name, something she almost never did. She was also surprised the other woman singled out professionalismas something she had done well. Surely getting personally involved with the team leader was a mark of less than professional behavior, not to mention opening up the possibility for both her and John to be dismissed for an inappropriate personal relationship.

When Mariah remained silent, the General continued. "Major Casey is needed elsewhere, and I need him focused on the job at hand, not on what's going on in Los Angeles. You thought fast and preserved his ability to return to Operation Bartowski when it becomes necessary, and for that I am grateful."

Considering she had removed John's belongings—Mariah was now certain she had ordered it done—she wondered if the woman thought she was genuinely stupid. Then, she reconsidered. Probably John was coming back but she was leaving. This was beginning to sound like a dismissal, and it pissed her off, not least because she was just labeled a distraction for John. She decided then not to fight it despite the instinct to do so. "When should I be prepared to leave?"

The General's face went tight. "You aren't leaving. At the moment, Chuck trusts you far more than he does Agent Kavanaugh."

"Who?" Mariah asked, thoroughly confused since she thought John's replacement was Baker. Then she realized Baker was an alias. She could tell Beckman was upset by her own slip with the name, and Mariah thought it rather telling that the other woman, who never made a verbal misstep, had done so.

"Tom Baker is really Robert Kavanaugh, Miss Adderly. Be that as it may, I would like you to remain where you are for the foreseeable future. If you prefer, I will have requests for your cooperation come through Agent Walker rather than Agent Kavanaugh."

"I would far prefer that."

Beckman gave her an assessing look. "Are there issues with Agent Kavanaugh, Miss Adderly?"

Mariah sighed. She thought a moment and then decided diplomacy might be her best option. "I think he and I got off on the wrong foot. At first, I thought he was trying to hit on me. Now, though, perhaps he was only trying to gain access to the apartment."

"Describe 'hit on' you?" The temperature of the General's voice was arctic. Mariah did, from the coffee shop to the flowers, all of it, as objectively as she could manage. "Is there anything else?"

She wondered if she should say it. She finally decided discretion was the better part of valor. "No."

The General gave her another appraising look. Silence stretched, and Mariah waited. Finally, the other woman said, "I will inform Agent Walker that your status in this operation will change." She sat back and looked through the monitor at Mariah. "I need Chuck Bartowski protected at all costs, so I think we will make you a fully operational member of the team."

Mariah sat straighter, thought hard. She was not an American agent, and this was their operation. She wondered if she was being bought off—made a part of the team only to be kept as much on the periphery as she had previously been to buy compliance. She knew the General was pragmatic, would do whatever it took to get her way, and if that meant bringing Mariah into the operation to keep her from telling John she was pregnant, Mariah suspected the General wouldn't be above offering what she thought might be an appropriate bribe. The problem was Mariah really didn't want to be an operational member of Team Chuck, especially not now. She breathed in and then released the breath. "Ma'am, I may not be the best choice for this. I'm having some," she paused, chose her words carefully, "physical issues, and they sometimes keep me off the cover job. I have limited usefulness to the team when I have physical limitations that could interfere."

Beckman's brow shot up again. "Before you and Casey made your relationship personal, his professional assessment of you was that you are capable though sometimes overly cautious. He admits you are not quite as skilled at personal combat as Agent Walker, but he says you think well on your feet. He believes, and I concur, that we can trust Mr. Bartowski with you despite your limited experience compared to himself or to Agent Walker. Was he wrong?"

John was loyal, almost blindly so, but it made Mariah feel good to hear the General's words. Despite her certainty that she was making a mistake, that she should simply ask to be sent home, she told the General, "I will do what I can."

"That's all I ask." The General's face was replaced by the Department of National Intelligence seal.

Mariah was distracted at the Buy More, returned again and again to her morning conversation with General Beckman. She would do her job, but she would feel much better if she discussed this latest wrinkle with her father. On her break, she found a quiet place and made the call. Her father, predictably, saw a golden opportunity. Having Mariah more fully part of the NSA/CIA team was a potential boon to ISI, and he was more than willing to exploit it. Mariah balked. "Dad," she said quietly, "I don't think I can do that."

There was silence on the other end. "Mariah, it's what we do."

She bit her lip. There was truth in what he said. Most agencies exploited what they learned from one another, but she felt dishonest and disloyal. She was relatively certain John had passed on what little he had learned about ISI from her, but she had not done the reverse. She had never revealed that Chuck was the Intersect, had only mentioned, when asked, that he appeared to be an analyst. She knew her first loyalty was supposed to be to ISI, but, increasingly, she found her loyalties had shifted. She felt the need to protect Chuck, but most of all she felt the need to protect John. That troubled her.

"I know, Dad, but if the Americans want to make me part of the operation, I presume that means I'm subject to their rules about disclosure."

"There's disclosure, Mariah, and then there's disclosure." She heard a grim humor in her father's voice. "Listen, honey, do what you have to do."

When the call was over, she wondered at the disappointment she felt. Somehow, she realized, she had hoped her father would bring her home. He was clearly not going to do that, so unless she wanted to quit—and she had never quit in her life—she would simply have to deal. She did a fast check of her e-mail and found Beckman had sent her access codes for Castle. She sat and stared at the screen a moment. There was something about this that made her very, very nervous.

When Agent Walker came over just before Chuck was due to go to lunch, she approached Mariah. "Why don't you join us for lunch?" the blonde asked.

Jeff had walked up behind Walker and said, "I'll join you. You haven't lived until you've experienced the Jeff Barnes sandwich."

Mariah eyed Walker, who barely disguised her disgust. Mariah had to admit the nausea she felt probably was not pregnancy-related. "I think Lester was looking for you." When Jeff had disappeared, she looked back at Walker.

"Have you read your e-mail?" Walker asked.

She nodded at the CIA officer.

"We'll need to take a retinal scan and feed it into the security system," the other woman said softly. "If you can come now, we'll take care of it."

Chuck walked up, and Walker reached up to kiss him. Mariah envied them, even though she knew their relationship was a cover. It was clear to anyone looking at them that there was a genuine attraction between the two of them, but Walker had so far resisted letting things progress beyond agent and asset. Sadness knifed through Mariah as she thought of John, wondered again where he was.

The three of them left the Buy More together, and Walker mentioned she'd ordered lunch in for them all. Once inside, Walker began to explain how the security system worked. Chuck helped with the retinal scan. Then they sat at the large stainless steel table and ate the sandwiches Walker had ordered.

As she and Chuck were about to leave and return to the Buy More, Kavanaugh came in. She felt Chuck stiffen beside her, but she kept moving toward the door. Kavanaugh moved to block her way, but she simply stepped around him and kept going.

As they crossed the parking lot, Chuck asked, "Does this mean he's leaving?"

Glancing across at him, she said, "Unfortunately, no."

"But you're going to be working with Sarah, so he can go, right?"

"Not the way it works, Chuck," she said, and then she stopped. There was no audio out here, and they could talk. "This doesn't change my status—or Baker's."

"You know his name's not really Baker, right?" Chuck raised his brows. "I mean, come on, who chooses 'Tom Baker' as an alias?"

For the first time in what felt like a long time, Mariah laughed. "You don't suppose he was trying to get some geek cred, do you?"

That dazzling grin of Chuck's appeared. "If so, he's about thirty years out of date."

They were both laughing, their arms linked, when they entered the store.

Unfortunately, Emmett Milbarge served as a welcoming committee. Mariah caught his sour expression, and she looked at Chuck. They both grinned. The assistant manager's expression soured even more. "The two of you are," he checked his watch with exaggerated care, "exactly two and three-quarters minutes late. I expect you to make up the time."

"We'll be happy to, Emmett," Chuck said cheerfully. "Should we take that off our breaks or stay late?"

Mariah, unable to resist, added, "Or perhaps we should come in early tomorrow?"

"There's always lunch tomorrow," Chuck countered.

Emmett sniffed, and he ran his eyes over Mariah. "Perhaps Casey would be interested in knowing who you're spending your time with."

Her smile stiffened. "John knows."

"Really?" Emmett purred, and the note of triumph in his eyes was Mariah's only warning. "Then perhaps you could explain why he was here looking for you."

She felt the euphoria she'd felt the night before when John called wash through her only to have it crushed as she looked at the assistant manager. All humor died. "John was here?" she asked carefully as she released Chuck's arm. Perhaps the flight he'd caught as he spoke to her was one that was a first step to bring him home.

Emmett did that annoying little sniff of his once more and inspected his cuticles. "He said he only had a few minutes—something about being in transit. I must say he looked so much bigger in his uniform."

His words crushed her. John had been here, and she hadn't. She couldn't stop it. The tears started. It embarrassed the hell out of her, not least because Emmett was giving her his insincere smile. She knew part of her reaction was that because of her pregnancy, her emotions were all over the place. A few nights before, she had burst into tears because she couldn't find her fingernail clippers, but the idea that she had missed seeing John simply devastated her. She felt Chuck steer her toward the back of the store while she fought for control.

Chuck fished his phone out of his pocket. "Sarah?" she heard him ask. "Have you heard from Casey?"

Mariah found something to wipe her eyes on and blew her nose. Chuck stood and watched her, listened to whatever Walker said. "Take a look at the surveillance feed from the Buy More, would you?" There was a pause. "Because Emmett Milbarge says he was just here."

She cried harder when Chuck ended the call and told her Emmett had lied to them. It was cruel of Emmett to have told her that, and she didn't understand why he had done so. It was one thing to take verbal swipes at her, make snide comments about her cheating on John, but to tell her she had just missed him was more than she could bear at the moment. For his part, Chuck put his arms around her and let her cry on his shoulder.

"What's wrong with her?" she heard Morgan ask. She wasn't sure how long she'd been watering Chuck's chest at that point, but she was nearly cried out.

"She's missing Casey," Chuck said.

She tightened her grip on him a moment, thankful for his prevarication. Then she pushed away from Chuck, wiped at her eyes and cheeks. "You look terrible," Morgan said to her.

"Morgan!" Chuck hissed.

Mariah shook her head. "I'm sure he's right," she said. She wiped at her cheeks, absently noting that her hands shook as she did so.

Chuck told her to stay in the back and work on repairs. He was the one scheduled for that afternoon's cage duty, but she appreciated not having to go out and face the public with blotchy skin, swollen eyes, and a red nose.

She had a quiet afternoon, and the only problem was that it gave her far too much time to think. The things she thought about included why Beckman would suddenly make her part of the team. It made little to no sense to Mariah to suddenly choose to include her. She understood that Chuck apparently trusted her, but he had always trusted Sarah Walker more than anyone. John had been alternately frustrated and relieved that Chuck didn't trust him more than he did, and Mariah had never asked what his orders were when it came to an endgame. She had seen enough of General Beckman to know the other woman had a ruthless streak even her godfather couldn't match. She suspected John's brief was to kill the younger man when he was no longer needed.

The other thing she thought about was John's phone call. She hadn't noticed at the time that he repeatedly asked if she was alright, but as she mentally replayed the conversation again and again, he had spent most of it asking her exactly that. She had a feeling her father had given him enough to know something was wrong but hadn't told him what.

Her thoughts then turned to Emmett Milbarge's cruel little joke. She desperately wanted to make the man pay for that, but she couldn't afford to jeopardize her job. It wouldn't stop her from looking for an opportunity and exploiting it if she got the chance.

- X -

Casey didn't get another chance to call Riah. He found himself and a carefully selected squad of his men hunting an Al Qaeda agitator whose men had been inflicting heavy losses on the coalition troops as well as the Iraqi police. To make a call was to risk detection, and for his own safety and that of his men and their Iraqi informants and partners, he didn't attempt to contact her. It was only during the moments when he had a chance to rest that he indulged in the luxury of thinking about her. As he drifted off, he pictured her, usually naked and in his arms. He could feel her limbs entangled in his, the heat of her, and he could taste her as sleep claimed him.

When they had completed their mission, after he had dressed down Miles for having killed the man before they could interrogate him, Casey tiredly considered making the call. Instead, he found himself writing reports, explaining how Miles had mistakenly assumed the man was armed and reaching for a weapon when he shot and killed him. Casey had his doubts but no proof, so he let the report reflect what Miles said and his men corroborated. There was no contradictory evidence, though the dead man had proven unarmed when his body was examined. Mistakes happened, he knew, but it was irritating when it cost intel.

Finished, he stretched. His bunk called to him, but there was one more thing he wanted to do. He opened an e-mail account he'd set up on a non-government system. He had never used it, but after he deleted the junk mail that had accumulated, he opened a message screen. He wrote Riah on her personal e-mail account rather than her ISI one or the one associated with her BlackBerry, told her what he'd said on the phone: he hadn't asked to have his things moved. He wrote that he had left her a note to explain that he was being recalled, but he didn't know why she hadn't received it. He wrote that Beckman had said she would tell Riah he was leaving, but he didn't know why she hadn't done that, either. He could have guessed, and he'd probably be right, he thought, but it wouldn't be productive to tell Riah that. He wrote that he wasn't sure when he'd be back, wasn't sure when he could call her again, and he told her he didn't know if he'd be able to check this account any time soon.

He stretched, exhaustion catching up to him, but he wasn't finished yet. He stared at the wall opposite him for a while, turned over words and phrases as he sought the right ones, and then he returned to the message. This time he wrote that he missed her, that he hoped she was alright. He wrote that her father had seemed concerned about her, and he told her that if she needed him, to tell her father. V. H. would find him, and Casey would do what he could to get to her.

Unbidden, he had that image in his head again, the one of her heavy with child. He rubbed his eyes and beat it back. His fingers were tempted to write something he knew he couldn't say to her, especially when he knew his agency frequently intercepted e-mail messages, so he used the touchpad and hit send before he weakened and let them. He closed the program, killed the satellite link, and shut down the laptop. He dropped on his bunk, unlaced his boots and removed them, and then he ran a finger over her image in the photograph before he rolled onto the cot and dropped into deep, dreamless sleep.

- X -

The chance to get even for his lie eluded her. It was almost as if Emmett Milbarge knew she was looking for an excuse. He stayed clear of her, and he only spoke to her about the job. To Mariah's amusement, the other job was pretty dormant, too. The only difference in her routine was to be present at briefings with the General.

When she attended the first one, Kavanaugh nearly exploded. He'd demanded to know why she was there. Mariah said nothing, and even Walker refused to say anything. When the General appeared on screen, he repeated his demand. The General gave him a hard glare and told him because she said so. It didn't take long to realize that Mariah would play a support position, and that didn't especially bother her. She was still fairly suspicious of why she had been included, so having limited responsibilities suited her.

Her life really didn't change much. She had too much time alone, and she was finding, as she had in Chicago, that that was dangerous. She had begun having minor panic attacks, most apparently triggered by planning for her pregnancy. Chuck walked into the middle of one, and she decided then this couldn't continue. She went to the beach on one of her days off and called Ben. She had a long talk with him on the phone, and that evening he e-mailed her the name of a therapist he thought would be good for her. The next day, she arranged to meet the woman and found she liked her. She stopped seeing Dr. Dreyfus, the CIA psychiatrist, and Beckman wasn't happy when she found out. Mariah explained that she needed to deal with some personal issues she wasn't comfortable talking about to the other man, assured Beckman she would not talk about the job, and when the General realized Mariah wouldn't give in, she capitulated with ill-grace.

And then, one night, Mariah woke up and was momentarily disoriented. She had been dreaming about John, and she automatically reached for him before she remembered he was gone. When she moved, she felt something wet and sticky between her legs, and when she turned on the light, she found she was bleeding. She had felt something akin to cramps throughout the day, but had dismissed them. She made a frantic phone call to her aunt who came over immediately. Lydia made her get dressed and took her to the hospital.

When Lydia had run tests and then rejoined her, her expression somber, Mariah knew something was wrong. She froze as her aunt explained she was miscarrying. The tears trickled as Lydia told her it wasn't anything she had done, that these things happened, but Mariah shouldn't feel to blame. Mariah quit listening. She closed her eyes, beyond tired. Lydia gave her something Mariah dutifully swallowed. She ignored Lydia's explanations.

Her aunt took her home when it was all over, gave her some instructions she didn't really hear, and Mariah went upstairs to crawl into bed. She was too tired to change the stained sheets on the bed she'd shared with John, so she went to her old room.

She heard someone pound on the door downstairs, but she opened her eyes only to shut them again. She wanted whoever it was to go away.

She heard her phone shrill, but she ignored it. When it quit, she turned it off. She was just numb, but it beat feeling.

Someone was shaking her, and she thought she heard her mother's voice. She knew that was unlikely, so she burrowed deeper into her bed. Whoever was managing to sound like her mother shook her harder, and Mariah surfaced, squinted in the light that washed the room. She was surprised to see the concerned face of Ariel Taylor above her.

"Mariah, you're getting out of this bed, and you're doing it right now."

She swallowed thickly and started to roll over again. It had to be her imagination.

"Oh, no you don't," her mother said. "You're going to get a shower, and then we're going to talk."

Mariah pulled the blankets over her head, not caring that it was childish, and the thought of being childish stabbed at her. No child. Her child was gone.

Her mother pulled the covers off and pulled Mariah into a sitting position. She looked at her mother and burst into tears. At some point, it occurred to her that this was where her pregnancy had started, with her crying in her mother's arms. Ariel held her, murmured comfort now and then, and when the sobs subsided, she told Mariah softly, "Come on. Let's get you up and in the shower."

She stood under the hot water and absorbed the warmth. She heard the door open and assumed her mother was leaving her clothes. She started to wash mechanically. She had to make a conscious effort to move.

Clean and dressed once more, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth. Her head hurt, and she wondered how long it had been since she had gone to Lydia's office in the middle of the night. Long enough for her mother to arrive from wherever she had been, but Mariah had lost track of time. She felt weak, but that was hardly surprising since she couldn't remember the last time she ate something. It embarrassed her to realize she had let the blackness take over again, and then she wondered how her mother had managed to get inside the apartment.

She walked downstairs slowly. She felt lightheaded, and her legs shook slightly. She found her mother, her aunt Lydia, her sister, and her stepfather in the living room. Lydia sat her down and checked her over, fired questions at her. Mariah answered them as best she could. Her mother sat a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and some fruit in front of her, and she picked up her fork, ate what she could. She knew from past experience it was better to eat something than listen to her mother's alternating orders and pleas.

To her surprise, the women left her with Ben. He watched her, clearly uncomfortable. That surprised Mariah given his occupation. Finally, he said, "I can call Danielle, if you prefer," he said, naming the therapist she had been seeing. She shook her head. She asked him what day it was, and he told her. She had spent four days hidden away in her bed. She told him she had a scheduled appointment the next day. He tilted his head, and she saw the clinician in him assert himself. "Will you keep that appointment?"

She nodded. She suddenly remembered all the problems her four-day disappearance might have caused, but Ben apparently knew what she was thinking. "Your father took care of your job," he said quietly. "They sent a blonde woman to let your mother in the apartment." He studied her a moment. "This place is a fortress, Mariah."

The last was more a question, and she blushed. "John's doing."

"Have you heard from him?" Ben asked. She shook her head, and then she told him about the phone call. Ben looked grave. "You will tell him about the miscarriage, won't you?"

Mariah hunched into her chair and stared at a patch of floor. "I don't know where he is or how to reach him," she admitted softly. She didn't dare look at Ben. She didn't tell him that John hadn't known she was pregnant. That was probably just as well, she thought. John had made it crystal clear he didn't plan on being a father. She sighed and covered her face with her hands a moment. When she dropped them, she looked at her stepfather and said, "I love you, Ben, but I don't want to talk to you about this."

He gave her his wide, sad smile. "As long as you talk to Danielle," he told her, "because this isn't healthy, Mariah, and I think you need to talk to someone."

"I don't want to go back on the drugs," she said and blushed when she realized that had been an automatic response.

"Then talk to Danielle, but she may want you to take them for a while."

She promised and then asked where the others had gone. Ben shrugged and admitted he didn't know. She knew he had been left to talk to her, but the truth was she would rather have talked to her mother or her aunt. She gave them the benefit of the doubt, assumed they had left her with Ben since it had been a long time since she had had an episode like this.

They talked about other things, including Emma. After a while, she began to get that trapped feeling she sometimes experienced, and she asked Ben if he would go for a walk with her. When he agreed, she went upstairs and put on her shoes before grabbing her keys. As she locked the door, she heard Ellie Bartowski's voice call her name. She turned, and she saw Ellie's puzzled expression as she studied Ben. Mariah introduced him, and Ellie smiled, told him she had read some of his work. Ellie then turned her attention to Mariah. "Chuck's been worried about you."

"I've not been well," Mariah said.

Ellie started firing questions at her, but Ben came to Mariah's rescue. He efficiently told Ellie Mariah would be fine and that they were on their way to meet her mother and sister. Ellie once more gave Mariah a curious look, and Mariah realized she had never mentioned her family. She told Ellie she would see her soon, and Ben settled a hand in her lower back as they left the courtyard. He let Mariah choose the direction they took, and he walked silently by her, speaking only when she did.

They made their way to a nearby park, and Mariah selected a bench away from the playground filled with mothers and their children. She closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun.

"You always did feel better when you could be outside," Ben observed.

Mariah nodded. She wished she had chosen a different place as the high-pitched voices of children reached her. Still, she couldn't hide from them the rest of her life. "Ellie seems nice," Ben said.

She nodded and opened her eyes. She took the distraction he offered, found herself telling him about the other woman and her brother. When she wound down, Ben observed that she was lucky to have such neighbors. Then he asked, "She didn't know you were pregnant, did she?"

Mariah shook her head and then scrubbed a hand over her eyes. "I didn't tell anyone here. I just—I just thought John should know first."

They talked a little more about her life in Los Angeles, and eventually they decided it was time to go back.

When they walked back to the apartment, they met Chuck coming home from work. He got what John called a flash face when he saw Ben. That made Mariah more than a little curious, but she curbed the desire to ask, especially with Ben present. Instead, she introduced the two men, explained that Ben was her stepfather. Chuck mumbled something about a date and that it was nice to meet Ben and headed for his apartment.

Ben stared after him and said, "What a strange young man."

Mariah said nothing, led him back to her apartment. After Ben made himself at home, Mariah told him she needed to go get her mail. She left him looking at a book in the living room and went and knocked on Chuck's window.

"You flashed on Ben," she said before he could say anything. "I want to know what."

She could tell he wasn't sure he should tell her.

"Look," she said, "let's just skip the part where you tell me I'm mistaken and the part where you tell me you can't tell me, okay? They made me part of Team Bartowski, so spill."

Chuck leaned forward and put his hands on the window sill. "He worked on the Montreal Project."

Mariah felt lightheaded, and Chuck looked alarmed. "What do you mean he worked on the Montreal Project?" she asked faintly. Dr. Houston, not Ben, had tested her. She had never seen Ben before her father took her to him after her abduction—long after the Montreal Project had ended.

"I didn't get any details other than that, Mariah," he said. "He's a child psychiatrist, right?"

She wanted to correct Chuck, tell him Ben saw adults as well, but his specialty had been traumatized children. Who had been more traumatized than the children in the Project? She began to see Ben's research in an entirely different light. "Thanks," she said, and as she returned to her apartment, she wondered if Danielle Monahan had worked with Ben then, knew about that part of Mariah's life. Mariah had not talked about her childhood with the other woman, had focused mainly on Gray, adult traumas, and John. She sighed. The last grownup person she still truly trusted may have betrayed her she realized as she let herself in the apartment and looked at him.

"No mail?" Ben asked from his seat on the sofa.

Mariah had forgotten that was the excuse she had used to go see Chuck. She shook her head, knew she couldn't go check it now without arousing Ben's suspicions. There were bills she would have to retrieve later and deal with, she was sure, but at the moment she needed to think. She desperately wanted to ask Ben about his work for ISI, but she didn't think she should expose him there where the Americans would know. She couldn't do that to Emma.

She asked if she could get Ben anything, but he declined in the absentminded way that told her he was absorbed in his book. She moved into the kitchen, took down a glass and got some water. She decided to check her e-mail, maybe send her father an encrypted message to ask him about what Ben had done for them all those years ago.

Using her own computer, she logged on and systematically opened her e-mail accounts, beginning with her ISI account and finishing with her personal one. She skimmed the messages out of habit, deleted some obvious junk, and paused when she saw an unknown address. She stared at it a moment, torn between laughing and crying. Clicking the message from GIJohn, she avidly read John's e-mail. It was a unique kind of torture for her, especially when he confessed in the second part of the message that he missed her. She did cry then. She tried not to make a noise so she didn't alert Ben, but she must have made a sound of some sort because he asked, "Mariah?"

"Sorry," she choked.

He stood, set his book down, and started to cross the room to her. "Bad news?"

She gave him a watery smile and closed her laptop. "No. Good news."

Ben cocked his head and looked expectant.

"It's a message from John," she said. Suddenly, she was tired of the pretense. She shut the surveillance equipment off. "Ben, what did you do for the Montreal Project?"

He paled. She could tell he debated whether or not to tell her, but she hoped he would. He sighed. "Clean up, Mariah." She felt the color drain from her face. "Not that kind!" he said in disgust. "Clack hired me to interview the children on the list to see which had—well," he said and gave a nervous cough. "A little hypnosis, a little memory alteration." She looked at him, horror-struck, and she suddenly wondered what else had been done to her as a child. "No! No!" he said quickly, stepping toward her, his hand outstretched. "It kept them alive, Mariah. Not all of them were that fortunate."

She well knew that. Before she could say more, her mother and Emma came through the door, and Mariah turned the surveillance equipment back on.

They stayed a week. Emma and her mother took turns staying with her. Mariah liked it best when Emma stayed, and as if her mother sensed that was the case, Ariel soon started returning to her Malibu beach house at night, leaving the sisters together. Emma took a liking to Chuck, and Mariah was very nervous about that until she realized that it really was just a liking and not a crush. She supposed it could have been worse. Emma could have decided she liked Morgan Grimes. Mariah shuddered. Chuck was nice to her sister, and Ellie, curious about the first members of Mariah's family she had met, invited them all to dinner. Ben, by that time, had returned to Chicago, but when the three women turned up at the Bartowskis', Ellie nearly fainted when she realized Ariel Taylor was on her doorstep.

Her mother set out to put Ellie at ease, and Mariah was proud of how her mother acted like a normal person. Ariel even dealt with Devon's hyperventilation and subsequent statement that one of her albums was his "getting lucky" music with grace.

At night, Mariah thought of John, thought of his e-mail message, and she was sorely tempted to answer it. He had written he rarely checked the account, though, and the truth was that though she desperately wanted to talk to him, her reason for doing so was gone. She couldn't bring herself to contact him just to say she missed him, mainly because she feared she'd pour all the rest out to him, and she couldn't do that, not when he was gone. She knew he had gone back to his special ops team. Beckman had finally told her that much, at least.

Alone again, she began picking up the pieces as best she could. She saw the therapist, and she went back on the antidepressants. All she had to do was hold it together until someone decided her fate, she thought one night. She suspected she'd be sent home soon, especially since it was obvious John wasn't coming back. That was what made his e-mail so seductive.

Then, just as she had mostly regained her equilibrium, an ISI operative knocked on her door early one morning, handed her a packet and left. Mariah had orders to return to Ottawa, supposedly for training, but she suspected she would not return to Los Angeles. She looked at the plane ticket. They were wasting no time. She had a flight out that evening.

The com equipment came to life, and General Beckman's face appeared. "I see your father lost no time," she said.

Mariah stared at the other woman. "I'll call the Buy More and tell them I'm leaving. Should I tell them what we discussed earlier?" She referred to her offer to leave and tell them John was returning to the military permanently while she was moving to the base where he would be stationed.

"No, Miss Adderly," the General said. "This is no more than what your orders say. You're to go to Canada for mandatory training. You will return when you've completed that training."

Mariah cocked her head and stared at the image on the screen. She was deeply suspicious now. She would have thought Beckman would be thrilled to be rid of her. "And how am I supposed to explain a six weeks absence to the Buy More?"

The General folded her hands. "We've thought of two options. Major Casey has leave but can only get to Germany. You're going to take unpaid leave and visit him. Or he's been injured, and you're on your way to him."

She wondered who _we_ were. She chewed her lip. "The first option is better," she said at last. "If we say John's injured, they'll want details, and then John will have issues if—when—he comes back. Besides, any injury serious enough for me to go to Europe would be serious enough to keep him down longer than I'll be gone or get him discharged."

Beckman gave a curt nod. "If you have problems with the Buy More, let me know, and I'll arrange for them to give you the time off." The other woman closed the line then, leaving a bemused Mariah standing in the living room.

Mariah finished packing what she thought she would need, and as she set the case beside the door, she wondered if there was some reason they wanted her out of Los Angeles. She wasn't due for training for another two months, and it was unusual for an operative on assignment to be recalled early. It was possible, she supposed, that her father had decided to force the issue at last. It was also possible that Beckman had finally decided to move Kavanaugh into John's apartment, and this was the first step in cutting ISI out of the Intersect project. She packed her service weapon in its case. She'd run it over to Mona to send it back to Canada. It would be easier crossing the border without it, she knew, and Mona would have it there almost as fast as Mariah would arrive.

There was a knock at the door, and she opened it to Chuck. "Hi," he said. "Sarah said you're leaving."

They both had the day off from Buy More. "Temporarily," Mariah acknowledged.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Training."

Chuck gave her a funny look. "They gave you a spy license, but they still have to train you?" he asked. "I wouldn't have thought they'd send you here if you still needed training."

Her lips twitched. "ISI has mandatory training for their operatives every three years," she told him. "I'm due, so I'm going home for about a month and a half." Actually, she was headed to a complex just outside Ottawa, but she saw no reason to complicate the explanation.

He asked about the Buy More, and she told him she was about to go see Big Mike. Chuck offered to go with her, but she thanked him and declined. She had other errands to run while she was at it. When he had gone, she collected her purse, car keys, and cell phone, and picked up her gun case.

She flashed her ID at the consulate guard and was amused when he insisted on inspecting her case. Anticipating the possibility, she had the paperwork from ISI ready.

It felt good when Mona hugged her, and even the whiff of some perfume Mona had probably read about in one of the spy romance novels she still devoured only served to remind Mariah of home. She explained why she was there, and it was soon obvious Mona knew she was going home.

Mona agreed to send her service weapon ahead, so Mariah locked the case and handed it over. They talked a few minutes about nothing much, and then Mona looked at her over her glasses. "Are you okay?"

Mariah realized the other woman knew. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Mona reached a hand out and covered hers, and Mariah very nearly burst into tears. "Some days better than others," she admitted a little thickly when she trusted herself not to cry.

"Oh, honey," Mona said, and her sympathy made tears come closer to spilling. "I'm so sorry."

She bit her lip and nodded, relieved when Mona's phone buzzed and she got up to answer it. It gave Mariah a chance to get herself back under control. She heard Mona say, "She's right here," and shot a look at the older woman. Mona held the phone out. "It's your dad."

Mariah crossed and took the handset. "Dad?"

"Change of plans," he said, and his no-nonsense tone told her he probably wasn't alone. "I need you to do an errand for me," he said before he went on to detail that errand. She was going to Europe, to southern France, to collect an informant. The man she was to meet had escaped Afghanistan only a step ahead of his former colleagues. Mariah was to see he safely got to Canada and to take him to a safe house in Ottawa where she would turn him over to ISI. "I'm sending the paperwork to Mona," he finished. "Give your ticket to Ottawa to her, and she'll give you the one for Marseille. You'll need to keep your weapon."

Mariah sighed, handed the phone back to Mona. When the other woman had hung up, she turned to Mariah. "I've got to arrange my leave with the cover job," she explained to Mona. "I'll come back when I'm finished and pick up my documents."

Big Mike wasn't very happy when she explained what she wanted. He frowned, he blustered, Mariah, exasperated, finally resorted to tears, and as she left, she made a mental note that the big man couldn't stand a crying woman. Emmett Milbarge intercepted her. "You're needed on several off sites tomorrow."

"You'll have to reassign them. I'm taking six weeks unpaid leave," she said and walked away from him before he could respond.

She drove back to the consulate, picked up her documents and weapon, and then went home and collected her bag. She didn't really want to leave her car at the airport for so long, so she walked across and asked Chuck if he'd mind driving her. As they drove, she told Chuck to keep an eye on things for her and to call if he needed to. He nodded, wished her luck, and to her surprise, he hugged her when he got out to help her get her suitcase from the back. She hugged him back and waved when he drove away.

It felt good to have a win for a change, she thought as she left the quiet little man in ISI hands. It had been a relatively easy job, though they had had a few ugly moments on the way to the Marseille airport. Mariah grinned as she sat in the passenger seat of the car her father had sent. She looked forward to being in her own home, even if for only one night. Oddly, she couldn't help but think of John.

Perhaps that was why when she was inside she dropped her case in her bedroom and went to the kitchen, splashed bourbon in a glass and sat down before the panoramic view of Parliament Hill. She sighed and sipped the whiskey. Tomorrow she started training. Maybe that would take her mind off him.

- X -

Casey and his men were quickly sent out again. The mission was similar enough to the one they had just undertaken that Casey felt he was simply retreading the same ground. When the end result was pretty much the same as that of the previous mission, he allowed his frustration to show in his report. At least Miles had not been the one to pull the trigger this time, and the death had been justified. Casey had worked in the intelligence world long enough to regret the loss of intel.

His thoughts turned to Riah as he lay in his bunk afterward. He had checked his e-mail, but there had been no message in response to his. She had not tried to call him, and he had heard nothing further from V. H. Whatever the crisis had been, he assumed it was over. It bothered him, though. Something had made V. H. hunt him down. Chasing that thought was the idea that Beckman might have finally sent her back to Canada, and he was surprised by how disappointed he felt at the idea. Perhaps when he finally got back to the States, when he got some time off, he could go see her—or she could come to him.

The next morning he had new orders. His men were getting a new officer, and he was going to D.C. He decided to call Riah when he got there, but his plane was met in Germany, and he was hustled immediately onto another bound for the States. He was taken straight to headquarters, and when he faced Beckman, there was no time to ask about Riah. Beckman, assuming he wanted to know about Bartowski, let him quickly know the kid was still the Intersect and Walker had everything well in hand. There was no mention of Riah, and he had no opportunity to ask before she told him she was sending him to Afghanistan once more.

To his surprise, though, once she had explained the Afghan mission, the General continued with, "Before you go, Major, V. H. Adderly has requested your assistance."

Casey schooled his features. He would not ask about Riah, he promised himself. He had time enough to find out what he wanted to know. "With what?"

She gave him a tight, far-from-amused smile. "You will evaluate an ISI training mission."

That news wiped any thought of Riah from his mind. He was being punished, and he wondered for what. Officers of his status didn't do this. With notable exceptions, men who were burned out, who were no longer of use, or who had so screwed up a mission they could no longer be trusted in the field became teachers and evaluators. Casey failed to see in which of those categories he belonged. "With all due respect," he began, but General Beckman cut him off.

"Adderly was kind enough to loan us his daughter," she said frostily. "I've agreed to loan you to him this once." He started to protest, but she gave him a stony look. He bit it back, said nothing, and listened to her instructions.

Beckman had had someone in to clean and air out his house. While he was grateful, he still was uneasy with the idea that someone had been in his personal space, someone he had not approved. There was fresh food, and he supposed Beckman had arranged that as well. He ate and then began laundry. While he sat in front of the news, he thought about Riah. He dialed her number, but he got her voice mail. He hung up. He thought about e-mailing her again, but he didn't want to appear to chase after her like a lovesick schoolboy.

The next morning he travelled to Canada, his bags repacked. An ISI operative met him at the airport and drove him to the training ground. He was handed a file as he got in the car, and he read the scenario and studied the diagrams of the area where the exercise would take place. By the time his driver parked the car, he was pretty comfortable with what he was there to observe.

What he hadn't expected was to see V. H., but the other man waited for him when he climbed from the car. Whatever animosity V. H. felt was clearly gone as he smiled and shook Casey's hand. "I appreciate your doing this," he told Casey.

Casey grunted rather than say anything since he wasn't sure he wouldn't insult the man. He did, however, ask, "How's Riah?" V. H. gave him an odd look.

"Fine." Casey knew he didn't imagine the hard edge to the other man's voice. "When we're through here, you and I need to talk."

He looked at his old friend. "I imagine we do."

Before he could ask where Riah was, V. H. gestured toward the command post. "We're about to start."


	7. Chapter 7

**Ghosts That Haunt—7**

Her godfather had once told Mariah about sending her father back to the Institute for mandatory training. Major Clack had needed her father there to understand and deal with a problem. Her father was sending her for actual training. She was part of an advanced class, and she found the work surprisingly easy.

Unfortunately, the second they saw her name, the instructors shot her an appraising look. For some, there seemed to be a moment's suspicion, but with others, there was dismissal. At least one of them softballed her, apparently certain her father had sent her to check up on him, so he wanted to curry favor for a good report. Two others were absolute bastards to her, but the rest treated her no differently than they did any of the other operatives there for training.

Her name didn't earn her any friends, either, especially since she had arrived two days after her course started. Some of her classmates who knew the name and knew she was the director general's daughter seemed to assume she did well through favoritism. As she always did, she performed well, studied hard, and passed the exams, usually at the top of the class. There were several operatives she knew who weren't hostile, but that was little comfort. There was one, though, a Mick Faraday, who apparently wished to simply torment her.

Faraday was good but arrogant—not that unusual in an operative with his background, she knew. He had trained as a sniper in the Army and ran one of ISI's tactical teams. He was there with hopes of joining the anti-terrorist team. Mariah knew that the operative who graduated first from training courses got his or her choice of assignment. Faraday seemed convinced Mariah was after the anti-terrorist slot, which, she supposed, might explain his animosity toward her. She entertained it one night, thought about what it could mean to her career, but then she thought about what else it would mean. She didn't want to live out of a suitcase, didn't want to pick up and fly to God knew where at a moment's notice. She wasn't interested in continually moving from place to place, never in one spot for longer than a few days or weeks. Honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted to stay with ISI. She thought about John, about the miscarriage, and then she thought about what she might like to do with her future.

Because she came up with no answers, she opened the text on her desk and settled in to study applied tactical theory in an urban environment.

Mariah felt battered and bruised when she returned to her dormitory room a few days later. She had good reason to feel that way, she reflected, because she was bruised, badly in a few places. She hated the hand-to-hand training. It had never been her forte. She was so much smaller than the other operatives—even many of the women—with whom she trained that it had often been easy to defeat her. They all had a longer reach; most outweighed her. She thought about the things John had taught her when she first went to Los Angeles, but many of those maneuvers were not allowed. She knew she should be able to overcome her size by fair means, but she hadn't. Her instructor told her she was overthinking it, but despite knowing he was right, it didn't help when she was up against an opponent on the mat.

And then she faced Faraday.

It started badly. He sent her to the floor all too easily, and it was only when he had reached down to help her up and softly hissed, "Daddy can't save you here, can he?" that she rallied. His hissed taunt pissed her off, and all the dirty tricks John had taught her came out when the next round began. In part, she took her anger at John out on Faraday, but mostly she simply saw red over the other man's statement that she was favored because of the circumstances of her birth. When she finished, she stood over Faraday, panting hard, her nose bloodied, her body bruised, and he lay unconscious on the mat. As the mist of rage cleared, she realized the trainer hadn't stopped her—and should have. She had a moment where she thought maybe she had been given a bit of favoritism after all.

Sergeant Hal Colson, their combat instructor, quickly disabused her of that. He stepped next to Mariah and turned to face her classmates. "Adderly just demonstrated one of the axioms of a field agent: do whatever you must to be the one who walks away. On the other hand, Adderly," and he turned to give her a raised brow and frown, "we generally don't use those tactics in training. I have to penalize your score for your improvisation." Colson dismissed everyone but her.

When two of Faraday's friends had taken him to see a medic and the others had left the gym, Colson crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. "You've learned a lot since the last time I saw you here," he told her with a grin. "Dalhousie and I told you then you had to get over the fact that your opponents are bigger than you are. How'd you finally manage that?"

Mariah swiped at the blood oozing from her nose. "My latest field supervisor was six-four and a couple of hundred pounds of muscle. He wouldn't stop a training session until I could take him down."

Colson's grin broadened. "I heard you were working with the Americans."

She shrugged but didn't confirm.

"I recognized a couple of those maneuvers you took Faraday down with," he said, but she still didn't respond. "What did he say to you, by the way?"

She almost told him, but then she changed her mind and remained silent.

"Hit the showers," he told her, and then called, "Well done," as she walked away.

Now, in her room, it occurred to her that she might simply have made things more difficult with Faraday because of what she had done in the gym. She sighed. Perhaps, like John, staying calm wasn't what made her function. She had simply lost it when Faraday said what he did. A part of her acknowledged she'd done really well as a result. A part of her acknowledged her response was unreasonable.

She felt restless. Despite her efforts to wind down, Mariah remained on edge, so a little after ten she made her way to the pub on the Institute's grounds. She had been tempted to go earlier, but she waited until she knew most of the trainees would have cleared out. When she entered, several conversations stopped and then started again, quieter. She ignored that and made her way to the bar. The bartender gave her a bit of a smile and set a neat bourbon in front of her. She dug in her pocket, but he waved her money away. "Sergeant Colson said the first one was on him for smacking down Faraday," the man said softly. He leaned over the bar to say even more quietly, "The second one's on me." She blushed and wished she hadn't come out after all.

Mariah nursed her drink, stared at the neon LaBatt's sign behind the bar, and wondered where she would go when her training was over. Beckman had said she would return to Los Angeles, but Mariah suspected she'd be told her services were no longer needed. She further suspected that just as when she graduated as a new recruit, even if she finished at the top of the class, she wouldn't have her choice of ISI assignments. As she mused on her future, someone slid onto the bar stool next to hers.

She liked Dan Thompson. They'd gone through the Institute together the first time, and he had gone to foreign affairs afterward. She nodded at him when he said hello. "There are quite a few of us who enjoyed seeing you take Faraday down," he said quietly, and Mariah began to notice that no one seemed to want to be overheard saying so. That was okay with her. Frankly, she would just as soon no one said anything about it.

Lifting her glass, she said, "Talk about something else."

Even as she sipped her whiskey, it occurred to her that she had just given a John response. To her relief, Thompson did as she asked. As a result, she passed a pleasant hour and a half before she decided to get back to studying. She dropped enough money on the bar to cover her second drink, and Thompson walked her back to the dorm.

She had several more run-ins with Faraday. The hostility escalated, and after he dislocated her shoulder in another hand-to-hand combat class, Colson privately told her he wanted to move her to another group. Mariah knew that let Faraday win, and she told him so. After they argued, she pointed out that in the field an operative didn't get to avoid unpleasantness, so he reluctantly let her stay where she was. She did, however, double and triple check everything when Faraday was involved. There would be no training "accident" if she could help it.

As they came to the end of the training course, Mariah and Dan Thompson wound up number one and number two respectively. Faraday was less than one-one-thousandth of a point behind them. Mariah and Thompson were tapped as team leaders for the final training mission. Mariah would head a tactical team, and Thompson would head a negotiating team for a hostage scenario. Sergeant Colson had looked at the two of them when he told them and the class that ISI had insisted, mainly because of Mariah's involvement and complaints that she was receiving marks because of who she was, on having an outside evaluator brought in. Mariah was relieved, but Thompson was pissed off. She assumed they would bring someone in from the RCMP or CSIS, so she wasn't concerned. They each took their mission packets and went to study them and prepare.

"Faraday," Thompson said as they made their way to the dorm. She shot him a confused look. "He's the one who made the complaints.

Mariah figured that was a pretty safe bet, so she said nothing.

"Is this why you've spent most of your career in ICOM?"

She considered not answering. "Not exactly," she said, and she was glad they had arrived at their floor. She told him she'd see him the next day and let herself in her room. She knew the stakes were even higher for her the following afternoon. If she passed, there would be no more questions about her competence when someone outside ISI evaluated her. If she didn't, then she would never escape the notion that she had had her way smoothed for her by her godfather and her father.

Not that her path had been very smooth parked in the biggest backwater ISI had when all she had ever wanted was field operative status.

Her phone rang near midnight, and she picked it up, recognizing her father's ringtone. She probably shouldn't talk to him, she reflected, but she answered anyway. He asked how she was doing, and she told him fine. He asked how the course was going, and she told him fine. He snorted and said, "You're not very responsive, Mariah."

"I have the final exam tomorrow, Dad. We shouldn't be talking to each other at all."

"They told me you've taken a lot of flak for being who you are."

She sighed. "I don't think we should talk about this."

"I talked to Diane Beckman," he told her. "You're to report back to Los Angeles as soon as you're released from the Institute. I'll pick you up, and we can have dinner before you get on the plane."

"You know, Dad," she said, "I seem to remember something about the top graduate getting to choose his or her assignment."

"Under normal circumstances, that would be true," he agreed, "but even if you hang on to the top slot, you already have an assignment."

Mariah was torn. "What if I don't want to go back?"

He didn't answer her question, instead, he told her he would see her the next day and hung up.

There was a missed call from a number she didn't recognize on her phone. She ignored it, shut the phone off, and concentrated on planning for the exercise the next day.

Mariah wouldn't have confessed it in a million years, but part of what she loved about the job was the rush, the adrenaline coursing through her when she was armed and on the hunt. She felt a small grin tug at her mouth. This was what John loved so much about his own job, she knew, and why the Los Angeles assignment had chafed.

She had been seriously pissed off when her father recalled her for mandatory training. Mostly it had been uncertainty and a contrary and simultaneous certainty that she was being sent away. While the training was required for the job, she was still coping with the fallout from Gray Laurance and from the miscarriage. She had to admit, though, that her father had been right to drag her out of Los Angeles and make her come home. It felt good to be home—even if it was only temporary—good to be in a place where every move wasn't watched, every word wasn't listened to. It felt good not to have to go to the Buy More. Most of all, it felt good not to have the constant reminders of John.

That hadn't stopped her from using him as the excuse for why she needed several weeks off from the Buy More or from putting the photograph she had asked Ellie for on her dresser in her Ottawa loft before she left for the Institute. She liked the photograph of her and John on the beach. They looked like they were in love, though Mariah had no illusions about how John felt about her. She hadn't heard from him other than that one, brief phone call. After she lost the baby, her father had once more offered to find him for her. She nearly told him to do so, but then she stopped. John had called the last time because her father had found him, but he hadn't said much of anything to her. It had been a duty call and nothing more. She wanted the next time she heard from him—assuming there was a next time—to be because he actually wanted to talk to her.

Then there was the e-mail. She had told no one but Ben about the message John had sent her. In part, that was because she hadn't seen it until after she lost the baby, and she wasn't talking to anyone much. By then, the need to talk to John was gone. The message itself had begun innocuously. He claimed to have left her a note, a note she had never found, though she supposed the team who had stripped his things from the apartment could have taken it. The only thing wrong with that was that John's things had remained in place for a week before Beckman had them removed. He also claimed Beckman had said she would tell Mariah he had to leave, but the other woman had done no such thing—at least not in any kind of timely manner and not until Mariah asked questions the General could no longer ignore. She wasn't sure she believed him, but John had never, to the best of her knowledge, lied to her.

It was the second part of the message, though, that had made her cry. John had written that he missed her. He had never said anything like that to her before. Admittedly, other than her time in Chicago and brief absences on his part for the NSA, they had not spent much time apart since she had arrived in California. She had missed him as well, more so at night when she was used to having him to herself.

By the time she saw the e-mail, her need to talk to him was gone. She would never tell him, she had decided, that she had been pregnant. He would probably be happier never knowing. If he ever learned the truth, she wondered if he would blame her for the pregnancy, if he might think she had gotten pregnant on purpose. It was in part because of that insecurity that she hadn't responded to the e-mail. She justified it by his admission that he didn't check the account often, but the truth was that she was afraid the relative anonymity of e-mail would lead her to write something she shouldn't, something that would betray how she felt about him, something that would guarantee she never saw him again.

"Hey, Adderly," Thompson said as he joined her.

She finished fastening the closures on her vest and nodded. She picked up her handgun, dropped the clip to check that it was loaded and that it was loaded with the simulated ammunition they would use in place of bullets, snapped the clip back, and put the gun in the holster attached to her hip. "You're ready to take the negotiation, right?" she asked.

He nodded and began pulling on his own vest. Mariah picked up her assault rifle and inspected it. She went through the additional dummy ammunition she'd been given, checked to make sure she couldn't really kill anyone. Since the accidental death of an operative during a training mission while she was in college, ISI had had an incredible paranoia about never using live ammo during training missions.

"This should be a cakewalk," Thompson said, which made Mariah grimace as she loaded the pack she would take to the site. She was not the superstitious type, but his comment sent a shiver ghosting down her spine. If there was one thing she had learned from her few short years in this business, it was that the real thing was rarely easy, and training missions had slowly begun to change to add the element of surprise one could face in the actual field. ISI's trainers had developed a reputation for ingeniously and unpredictably skewed opponents in the scenarios they trained with. There was no longer any such thing as a by-the-book play for these things, and she well knew it. She gave a slight smile as she scooped up her helmet. Several months with the Intersect had taught her to appreciate that those curveballs made it all much more like the real world.

Mariah waited on Thompson. They walked together to the room where they would receive their last-minute instructions before they were taken to the training ground. "I heard some hotshot Yank's been pegged as the evaluator," her companion said as they strode down the hallway.

For a moment, Mariah thought of John, but she knew he couldn't be the one. "Wonder what burnout the Americans sent," she snorted.

Thompson grinned and shrugged. "Didn't catch a name. Dubinsky apparently knows him, said he's a big fucker." He held the door for her. Mariah knew it was the last courtesy she'd get once they were in the room and started. "Meet up at O'Malley's afterward?" he asked as they took their seats.

Her father had told her he was taking her to dinner, but she supposed she could spare time for a drink before they left. She'd have to return to the dorm and pack, after all, before leaving. Her father wouldn't begrudge her a drink with her classmates, so she gave Thompson a grin and asked, "You buying?"

He chuckled. "First round's on you, Adderly."

"Yeah, right," she snorted. "You'll pack the place with your buddies, and my pockets aren't that deep."

"And here I heard you were loaded."

They shut up then, took their seats, and listened to their instructor. They'd all been there for over a month running through exercises, taking refresher courses, and, in a few cases, courses on new techniques that had come along since they had last come in for training. Mariah had to admit she owed John for her exceptional performance. She'd learned a lot from him, and she shut her brain off when it went to the personal things she had learned from him.

The exercise scenario was relatively simple: extremists had taken over a strip mall and held hostages. She and Thompson and their teams would have to work together to clear the mall, rescue the hostages and take the terrorists. Mariah had her doubts that they would ever really see such action in Canada, but the world was getting weirder, so who knew? She was handed a package containing her specific orders and the communications channels they were to use. She was also given blueprints of the mall and schematics for the electrical and heating and cooling systems, complete with maps of the ductwork. Part of Mariah thought that was cheating since she would have had to find a way to get those on her own if this were real world. She was given her communications equipment, and she strapped the battery pack and switched her mike on.

- X -

Casey sighed and settled in. He put the headset on, so he could hear the teams talk to one another. He scanned the monitors, noted the placement of cameras. He rapidly read through the scenario once more—terrorists with hostages in a strip mall. There would be two teams, one of them a tactical team, working together. He skimmed the evaluation rubric. It wasn't much different than what he was used to, but this time he'd be the asshole telling them what they did wrong.

V. H. joined him in the command post. He nodded at Casey and took the other seat. "Ready?" At Casey's own nod, he told them to begin when they were ready.

The first thing Casey noticed was the chatter. They talked too much, and too much of it wasn't about the job in front of them. He made some notes and continued to listen. His pen stopped mid-word when he heard a familiar voice say, "Can the talk." He shot a look at the man still seated beside him. V. H. ignored him, kept his eyes glued to the monitors. Casey turned to them himself, looked for her. He found her in full tactical gear signaling members of her team to go in the back of one of the stores. He momentarily thought they should have gone in both ways, but the front was glass, and they would have been spotted. If this were real, those inside could panic, think they were the next victims. Panic was never a good thing in such situations.

Riah announced the all clear after she had the agents playing shop assistants and customers escorted out the back and away. She directed the clearing of all the shops except the one where the hostages and terrorists were. It was efficiently done, even if an operative named Faraday apparently couldn't keep his mouth shut. Faraday was on the roof opposite the strip mall. She had two other team members who kept engaging the sniper, and despite Riah telling them to shut up, they ignored her. The chatter became about her, in fact.

Casey closed his eyes a second when they made the first serious mistake—and it wasn't, thankfully, Riah's. She made the right call, but two of the team decided they knew better and disobeyed a direct order. She sent them to the back before sending another two up top, through the ceiling. She asked for a position report, and then she placed four other operatives, two on each side, outside the front where they could swing around and cover. The two she sent to the back didn't go to the double doors in the loading area as she'd instructed but instead decided to go to the roof. He made rapid notes. He'd remember their names, though: Parker and Sontag.

She called for a visual on the terrorists from the snipers on the roof opposite, but Faraday talked over them. Even Casey could hear how pissed off she was when she told Faraday she would stand him down and send up a replacement if he didn't shut the hell up. The man argued. She carried through on her threat. She repeated her request for the visual, but they couldn't tell her much. The terrorists had moved the hostages to the back. Her team in the ceiling ran a camera through a vent and got her a report. The terrorists were standing, but the hostages were lying flat on the floor.

Riah let the negotiators do their work and held her team in place. Her team got audio in. When she was told to stand by to go in, she asked again for a perimeter check and then a position check. The two up top lied. As a result, Riah was unaware there was a clear escape route unguarded. Casey was irritated on her behalf even as he acknowledged she was at fault for not making sure her orders had been followed. When the go order came, she asked for one last visual check from the cameras. There had been no change in the positions of the terrorists or the hostages, so she sent her team in.

Casey watched, shook his head. Predictably, the terrorists returned fire, and when they realized no one came in the back, they escaped. The trainers called a halt and took a count: if it had been real, the team killed one terrorist, but the other five escaped. Riah lost two of her team and one hostage who stood up.

Through the monitors, he watched Riah walk out of the store front and motion for her team's snipers to come down from the roof opposite. She unbuckled her helmet and removed it before she snapped the strap closed again and slid it over the butt of her holstered sidearm so the helmet dangled on her hip. Her dark blonde hair was in a braid down her back, and he noticed it wasn't quite as long as it had been. He listened as she reamed out her two errant operatives, smiled slightly as he scribbled his observations. She then tersely pointed out her team's other errors before she moved into making sure each member of her team knew what she thought he or she had done well. Casey was intrigued by that. He was used to the reverse of that—the team leader or a trainer mentioning a general well done and then launching into extended error-finding. When she wound down, she told them to check their weapons and hit the showers.

The lead negotiator approached her, and she waited for him. She slung the strap of her rifle over her shoulder and began to strip off the gloves she'd worn, tucked them into her belt. They compared notes on what had happened, and Casey listened to a pretty succinct but accurate evaluation from the two of them. Casey gritted his teeth when he watched the negotiator reach out and stroke a hand up her arm to her shoulder and ask Riah, "Still on for O'Malley's?" and when she agreed, the man said, "Remember, first round's on you. Wear something sexy." She laughed, and Casey wondered if the pen would break before his fingers did where they gripped it. When the other operative moved away, she turned and scanned the roofline. "Okay, Faraday," she said, "Get down here."

She started to undo her bulletproof vest. When the other operative didn't appear, she cocked her head but remained standing alone in the middle of the street on the training ground. "This week, Faraday," she snapped out, pulling off her vest. Casey snorted, amused.

- X -

One of her dad's friends had once told Mariah you never heard the shot that killed you.

As she hit the pavement, Mariah had three seemingly simultaneous thoughts: he'd been wrong, it hurt like a sonofabitch, and she would never see John again because she was about to die.

She could feel the blood, could feel it pump out, and as the heat of the pavement scorched her cheek, she tried to calm down so it would pump out slower.

As things started to go black around the edges, she thought that at least she wouldn't have to listen to the inevitable dressing down for having taken her vest off.


	8. Chapter 8

**Ghosts That Haunt—8**

Casey's amusement was short lived. Riah stood there a moment, still, watched the roofline. He heard the shot through her mike, and he saw her crumple on the monitor. He threw his pen and the clipboard with the evaluation forms at the console and ran.

He shouldn't have been the first to reach her, there were others closer than the command post, but he was. His heart nearly stopped when he did. There was a spreading pool of blood. She was face down and bleeding out fast. He noted the entry wound on her back, and when he had her facing up, there was a larger hole in her lower chest. Not good. Blood trickled from her mouth, and her eyes weren't quite closed. "Riah?" he demanded, and he heard his voice break.

She closed her eyes and slowly opened them again. "John?" she whispered.

"Stay with me, honey," he said tightly. He put a hand over the hole just below her right breast and pushed hard. His right arm was below her shoulders, and he lifted her slightly, groped for the hole where the bullet entered. "Stay with me, Riah."

"Miss . . . you," she said faintly.

"I missed you, too," he said, and pressed his lips against her pale forehead. Her eyes fell shut, and he said urgently, "Riah, sweetheart, stay awake. Stay here, honey."

"Love . . . you," she murmured, and her eyes closed again.

"Riah," he moaned, "don't go to sleep, honey. Stay here, Riah. Don't leave me."

He kept talking to her, made her answer him when he thought she was slipping away, and he felt her blood drench his sleeve and then his chest when he clutched her against him when she stopped answering. He begged her to stay with him, to stay awake, to stay alert, anything he could think of. His hands weren't slowing the blood pumping out of her, and he realized the bullet must have nicked an artery or something else for her to be losing that much blood that fast, and the faint, whistling rattle in her breathing sounded a little like a lung collapsing. When the medics finally got there, Casey knew it couldn't have been much more than a moment, but it felt like a lifetime.

He started to let her go, let them have her, but she clutched his arm weakly. "I'm right here," he promised her. The medics asked him to lay her back on the ground, so he did. When he started to move out of their way, she appeared to panic weakly, and one of them said sharply, "Stay close. Talk to her."

Casey moved out of their way, took a position near her head, knelt in the blood pool, stroked her hair, and talked to her. Afterward, he was unable to remember what he said to her. He just knew he talked to her. They let him go with them in the ambulance—probably because he made it obvious he would insist. He stayed out of their way, watched every move they made as they struggled to keep her alive. When they reached the hospital, he stayed with her until they took her into surgery. He was shown to a waiting room where he took a seat.

It wasn't until V. H. Adderly joined him that he even remembered the other man. He'd been so tightly focused on Riah he hadn't spared a single thought for her father. Sitting in the chair next to him, V. H. said, "I've just called her mother. She's on her way."

Casey nodded numbly.

"Faraday's under arrest."

Casey gave another mechanical nod. He wondered how long it would be before they knew something. He wondered if she was alive or if she had died, wondered if they were trying desperately to revive her. His hand shook when he raised it to his face, rubbed it along his chin. He glanced at his watch, numbly wiped at the reddish smear on its crystal with a shaking thumb. How long had she been in there?

"You're not hearing anything I say, are you?" V. H. asked.

The question caught his attention. Turning to look at the other man, Casey realized he was right. He hadn't heard much of what the other man had said. He'd been so wrapped up in his own concerns he hadn't thought about her father. Now, though, he noticed the man's pale, drawn face and the worry in his dark brown eyes. "No," Casey admitted.

V. H. sat back and turned slightly to look at Casey. "I've asked Mariah, but I've never managed to get an answer. What happened between the two of you?"

Casey swallowed thickly. He wasn't sure he knew himself, and as a result, he wasn't sure he could give the man an answer. He closed his eyes, heard Riah's faint whispers again: _Miss . . . you . . . . Love . . . you_. "We—" he cleared his throat, "—we . . . . _Christ_!" His hands shook and he folded them together to make them stop. He blinked rapidly, his vision blurry.

V. H.'s hand went to his shoulder. "Just tell me this: do you love her?"

He looked at the other man sharply.

Adderly sighed heavily when Casey didn't answer. "She saved your cover, you know," V. H. said. "She told the Buy More that you were in the reserves and had been recalled to active duty and sent to Afghanistan. She told Diane she did it so you could go back when it was time."

Casey couldn't help wondering if she would be there if he did go back. He had to acknowledge the story she concocted to explain his absence was smart, one he should have thought of himself, but Riah thought faster on her feet than he did when it came to things like this. If the General had been smart, she'd told Bartowski a version of the same.

A door opened, and both men looked up, expecting to see a nurse. One of the surgeons came through, and Casey's heart sank. _Dead_. She had to be dead for him to be out here this soon. _ Jesus_. He was coming to tell them. Would he even let Casey stay, or would he have to leave while the man told her father?

"Mr. Adderly?" he asked, looking from one to the other of them.

V. H. cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"Your daughter—" the man broke off, looked at Casey.

"This is Mariah's fiancé," V. H. said, falling back on the lie from Banff.

The surgeon went on to say there was considerable blood loss, which Casey already knew, especially since he was wearing a good bit of it. The doctor continued, told them they were doing their best, but the bullet had done a lot of damage—something else Casey didn't need to be told. The doctor told them someone would keep them up to date on her condition. Casey wanted to tell the bastard to just get back in there and save her. They could talk when she was okay.

Time dragged. Neither man spoke much. Occasionally a nurse came out to try and reassure them, but Casey just glared and said nothing. It was left to V. H. to talk to them, to thank them. Casey simply sat there and came as close to actually praying as he got these days.

When Ariel Taylor breezed in with a white-faced Emma MacKenzie in tow, Casey tried for the first time to act human, even if it was only for the obviously upset girl's sake. Ariel ignored him for V. H., firing questions at her former partner about Riah's condition. Emma just stared at Casey, and he wished he had thought to see if he could change clothes. What showed of his once-white shirt was reddish brown with Riah's dried blood, and his suit and tie were crusty where the blood had soaked in and now dried. Emma sat beside him and asked him quietly if her sister would be alright.

Casey turned his head and looked at her. She looked so much like Riah it hurt. Emma might be blonder and younger, but she was unmistakably Riah's sister. "We don't know yet," he confessed.

She looked like she was going to cry, and Casey hoped she wouldn't because he had never been able to deal with weepy females—he ignored the fact that he'd been able to deal with Riah when she broke down. The truth was that he wasn't sure he wouldn't join Emma if she did. To his surprise, she slipped her long, thin hand in his, and he held it, took some comfort from her light grip on his.

When the surgeon finally came to talk to them again, Casey had lost track of the hours. They had sent her to ICU. The surgeon painstakingly explained the damage and what they had done for Riah. He told them they didn't know for sure yet that she would survive. When the volunteer arrived to take them to her, Casey followed the others. He was supposed to be on a plane headed to the Middle East by now, but he would at least see her before he went.

They were shown into a waiting room, and Casey became aware of stares from the other people in the room. When the nurse came to tell them they could go back to see Riah, he started to tell V. H. it was time for him to go, but Ariel Taylor put a hand on Casey's arm and told the nurse to take him back first.

She looked so small in the bed, he thought. He stepped to her bedside, and looked down at her. She was so very pale, and she was on a respirator. As he had done the other two times she'd been in the hospital, he took her hand. After a moment, he raised it, kissed it. His other hand touched her temple, and he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, careful not to bump anything. He cleared his throat and whispered her name. He stroked his thumb over her temple. There were several things he wanted to say to her, but not like this. When the nurse came for him, he kissed her forehead again and whispered that he'd see her later.

When he went back into the waiting room, V. H. held his bag and a volunteer stood beside him. He handed Casey his luggage and gestured at the volunteer. "She's going to take you somewhere you can clean up," he said. "Apparently, your appearance is disturbing the others."

Casey stripped out of his blood-caked clothes and got into the shower. The volunteer had taken him to a locker room for the doctors, and he made quick work of washing and redressing in clean clothes. As he zipped his bag closed, he stared at his ruined suit. He emptied the pockets, transferred his badge from his jacket and his wallet from his trousers. Riah's blood, he noticed was on the case holding his badge. He ran a thumb over it. He tucked the badge in his bag.

He found his cell phone and called General Beckman then, explained what had happened. She wanted him on a plane immediately. For one of the very few times in his life, he refused to do what his commander said. She told him she'd make it an order, and he told her he'd disobey. The silence dragged on while he questioned his sanity. He was about to ruin his career for a woman who might not live. The second he thought that, he sank on the bench behind him, stared blindly at the lockers in front of him. The General didn't make it an order, conceded that Mariah still worked for the NSA in a roundabout way, and told Casey he could stay until they knew whether she would survive.

For the next couple of days, he didn't leave the hospital except to shower and catch a few hours of sleep. V. H. gave him a key to Riah's loft apartment and told him to stay there. It wasn't far from the hospital, and it allowed her family some privacy, so Casey did. The first time he let himself in, he felt like a thief. She hadn't invited him in, and she couldn't object.

He looked around, curious. In Los Angeles, she had done a little to make their apartment more like a home. This was where she lived for real. It had an open floor plan and a stunning view from the ceiling to floor windows. The furniture was big and comfortable. There were two low sofas and a couple of armchairs. Cool greens and blues dominated with touches of red and orange. She had a fireplace, and on the mantel she had lined up family photographs. Most were of Riah and her father, though there were several of Emma, and on one end was her mother's wedding photo from when she married Ben MacKenzie. There were a number of truly beautiful paintings on the walls, mostly landscapes. He especially liked the seascape, surf breaking on a rocky coast during a storm before a lighthouse. It looked familiar to him, and he finally placed it as one in Newfoundland.

Her kitchen was roomy, and like his in Los Angeles organized with a military precision that let her find what she needed when she needed it without thinking. The stove was one of those expensive professional quality ranges. It and the other appliances gleamed polished stainless steel. The kitchen was separated from the living area by a large island with sinks and a long section of countertop. Two barstools were under one end, and he would bet she sat there in the mornings and read the paper while she drank her coffee and ate breakfast.

There were two bedrooms, the only rooms other than the bath to be sectioned off from the main living area, and when he stepped inside the one she obviously used, he was surprised by the simple lines of the white furniture. The walls were palest sea green with white trim, and the bed was made with crisp white sheets and a comforter. The windows had white sheers under drapes that matched her comforter, both of which were a darker shade of the color on the walls. There were more photographs on her dresser, including one, to his surprise, of the two of them. He lifted it, realized it had been taken the same day as the one he carried with him, and he tried hard not to read anything into that. He looked at the image of Riah in his arms, and he studied her smile as she looked up at him in the picture, hoped he would see her do so again.

He put it back on the dresser and looked at the wall. Rather than paintings, there were several bold black and white photographs of buildings—or, more correctly, parts of buildings—in white frames. Her bathroom was almost clinically white—tile, fixtures, towels, all of it. The other bedroom was spartan, contained nothing but a narrow twin bed.

Casey sat with Riah whenever he could, and it finally dawned on him that Ariel Taylor was making sure he had time alone with her daughter. Emma sat beside him most of the time in the waiting room, neither of them talking much. Riah's parents talked softly from time to time, but they were subdued as well.

When the respirator was removed, he started sitting with her through the nights. Her family went to V. H.'s home at night, but he stayed. The nurses weren't happy, complained at first, but finally looked the other way. He was about to nod off one night when he heard Riah rasp quietly, "This is starting to be a habit."

Casey gave a choked laugh as he sat forward. He had her hand in his, and he lifted it to his lips while he sought something to say. "Maybe we should think about breaking it."

The corners of her mouth lifted a tiny fraction. "I would prefer that." She winced a little.

He stood and leaned down, pressed his lips softly against hers. "I never want to go through that again." She closed her eyes and made a sound like a soft moan. "Do you want me to call the nurse?" She nodded faintly, so he pushed the call button.

They made him leave, so he called V. H. from the waiting room, told the other man she was awake and that the doctor was with her. Riah's family arrived about the time the doctor came out to talk to him, and Casey listened as she told them Riah still had a ways to go and there were still no guarantees she would recover, though they thought her chances were considerably better now. He watched Riah's parents sag, put their arms around one another and then pull Emma in. He realized he no longer had an excuse to stay, so he turned and walked away.

Casey made quick work of repacking his things. As he let himself out, he realized he still had the key to Riah's apartment. He decided he'd go back by the hospital and leave them with V. H. before he caught the flight General Beckman arranged for him. He would fly to St. John's in Newfoundland and pick up an American military transport from there. The General called him with his flight details as he sat in the taxi on his way back to the hospital. He had three hours before it left.

He saw Emma first, and she looked angry. "Mariah's asking for you," she said when he walked up to her.

Casey ignored her statement. "Where are your parents?"

"My father's in Chicago," she told him curtly. "If you mean Mom and V. H., they're in with Mariah."

Handing her Riah's key, he said, "I have a plane to catch. Give this to V. H. and tell him thanks."

When he turned to go, Emma grabbed his sleeve. He jerked his arm loose, but she persisted. She followed him as he stalked down the hall. "You're not even going to go say goodbye to her, are you?" He kept walking. "Is this what you do, Casey? Just walk away?" She scored a direct hit with that, and his steps faltered. He ignored it, though, kept moving. "Is that why you were nowhere to be found when she lost the baby?"

That one stopped him in his tracks. He turned to face her, certain he had not heard what he thought she said. He stared at her angry face and read the truth there. It felt like a physical blow. His chest tightened, and his lungs seized. He took a step toward Emma, then another. "What?" His voice sounded wrong.

Emma's face didn't soften, nor did she moderate her tone. "Mariah was pregnant when you disappeared. She miscarried several weeks ago."

He dropped his bag and grasped Emma's arms. "Why didn't someone tell me?"

Emma blinked. "I thought you knew."

"No." His thoughts raced. He knew now why V. H. been so adamant that he call Riah, why he had sent his best operative to find him so he could insist he call her. He knew, too, why she hadn't responded to his e-mail or called him. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't chase him down. He also understood why Ariel had made sure he had time alone with her. His thoughts were jumbled, and he kept thinking how much he wished V. H. had just told him. He would have still been half a world away, but he would have made sure she understood he hadn't abandoned her.

"Casey, we thought you knew."

"You just thought I didn't care," he said bitterly. Emma's face blanched. He studied her pinched face. "Emma—"

In the distance, he could see V. H. and Ariel returning to the ICU waiting room. Emma took his arm and dragged him back toward them. He felt numb and more than a little betrayed. Not one of them had said a word to him about Riah's pregnancy in all those hours they had waited together, waited to learn if she would live or die. Even Ariel, who usually took great pleasure in verbally stabbing him in whatever weak underbelly she thought she could find, hadn't said anything. When they reached Riah's parents, V. H. reached out and took his bag. Emma continued to lead him toward Riah's room. She sent him in alone.

It looked like Riah was asleep again, but he must have made a noise of some sort. She lifted a hand to scrub her knuckles against her eye before she opened both of her eyes and looked at him. She blinked. "John?"

He crossed to her bed and leaned down. "Hi."

She blinked sleepily. "These are pretty good drugs," she slurred.

"I'm glad," he said, amused despite himself. He searched for the words, but he couldn't find them.

"Mmm." Her eyes drooped.

"I'm glad you're alive, Riah," he said. It wasn't what he should have said, he knew, but he didn't have the words for the other. He was still trying to take it in, and he couldn't help feeling it was a conversation they should have when she wasn't so sedated she couldn't focus. He reached a hand out and cupped her cheek.

"Me, too," she said, "but when the drugs wear off I probably won't be."

He knew from experience how true that was. He leaned down and kissed her. Her lips clung to his a moment. He wanted to lie down beside her, wanted to hold her, wanted to tell her he'd never let anything like this happen to her again. "Riah," he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She looked up at him, and he could see she struggled to stay awake. "I don't know where you are."

Casey frowned. "I'm right here."

Riah lifted a hand, but it barely brushed his cheek before it dropped again. "Mmm. You feel real."

He watched her eyes flutter closed, and then she pulled them open again. "Riah." She looked at him, but he wasn't sure she really saw him.

"They're going to fire me this time," she whispered.

They wouldn't, he knew. What had happened had not been her fault. She had done what she was supposed to do, and it definitely wasn't her fault some moron decided to try and kill her. "I don't think so," he said softly.

"Mmm," she said. "I lost two of the team and a hostage. The terrorists got away. I'm toast." Her words were slurring more, and he knew she was about to go down for the count again.

"Riah," he said softly, deciding to try once more, and her eyes opened again. "I didn't leave you. I had to go where the job sent me. I would have come if I had known you needed me."

"Job comes first," she said, and he leaned closer as her voice weakened. "Job always comes first."

She was out again, and he stared down at her, puzzled. She knew the job, she knew they had to put it first, but why had that sounded so curiously bitter? He watched her sleep a moment, and then he leaned forward and kissed her softly before he laid the hand he held gently back beside her. As he walked back to the waiting room, he made a decision. He would stay until he could talk to her, until he could make her understand.

Her family stared at him when he came back out, and he suspected from the looks on their faces Emma had told them he now knew. He didn't care. He felt curiously empty. And tired. He felt exhausted, but he really hadn't done anything to tire him. As he approached Riah's family, he noticed two things: how much older her parents looked and the sympathy on Ariel Taylor's face as she watched him.

V. H. asked him something, but he didn't hear it. He looked at Riah's father and frowned. V. H.'s lips twisted a moment. "My driver will take you to the airport."

Casey's shoulders slumped. "I think I'll stay a while longer," he heard himself say. He needed to retract that, but he didn't have the energy. He swallowed, decided he needed to sit down. After he sank into a chair, he planted his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his palms. Pregnant. She had been pregnant. She had lost the baby, and she had been alone. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and breathed in deeply. He dropped his hands from his face and stared unseeing at a square of tile on the floor of the waiting room. It kept running through his head, again and again, and he felt numb.

A hand curved over his shoulder, and he heard his name. He looked up slowly. Ariel Taylor quietly told him Riah was awake again and asked if he wanted to see her. He stood and walked blindly to her room.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at her. He made himself walk forward, and when she saw him, she gave him a fuzzy smile. He realized she might be awake, but she was still heavily drugged. He ached to hold her, to ask what had happened, but he did neither. Instead he leaned down and kissed her. She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek as she weakly returned the kiss. He covered her hand with his and turned his head to kiss her palm.

"Missed you," she said, her voice still raspy.

"I missed you, too," he admitted.

She sighed, closed her eyes. Casey thought she must have gone back to sleep, so he started to put her hand down once more. She opened her eyes and asked, "Did they tell you I got shot?"

He gave her hand a slight squeeze and shuddered, remembered the blood pool, remembered how he had thought she would slip away from him. He reached out and cupped her cheek. "I was there."

"I thought I heard you," she said faintly.

Casey began to realize she didn't think he was actually there. She had as much as said so the other times he had talked to her. He supposed it was the drugs. Casey stooped, and when she opened her eyes, he leaned closer. "Riah," he said quietly, but the words left him as she looked into his eyes.

"John," she whispered, "I wish you would come home."

She looked like she would cry, and he kissed her once more. "I can't come home yet," he told her. "I still have a job to do, but I'll come home as soon as I can."

"Your replacement gives me the creeps," she said, and her eyelids drooped.

He froze. _Replacement?_ Beckman had sent someone to take his place on Mission Moron. Oddly, he felt betrayed by that. "How so?"

"He hits on me." She rubbed her cheek against the hand cupping it. "He keeps coming over and trying to get me to let him in, and he keeps asking me out." She made a face, and her body gave a spasm. She clearly was in some pain, but she continued, "I don't like him, and neither does Chuck."

Casey didn't like what she said. Riah was his, and there was some jumped up NSA or CIA operative trying to move in on her. He was about to ask her who this guy was, but she grimaced once more. "I'm tired, now," she said, and her eyes drooped. "Come home, John."

She was out again, and he looked down at her as she slept. He shot a glance at the clock. His flight had just left without him, and he realized he would soon be AWOL. He wished he didn't care, but he did. He had a sterling service record, and he had just tarnished it.

The rest of the day and the early evening went much the same way. She was awake and somewhat lucid for brief periods of time, and when he took his turn to visit her, she was alternately asleep or floating in a drug haze. He didn't try to talk to her about them, about the baby, but he did once try to draw who his replacement was out of her.

Emma and he were talking quietly about finding dinner somewhere when he heard a distinctive sound in the hallway. He looked up at two U. S. Marine MPs, and he knew Beckman had sent them after him. The senior MP was a sergeant, he noted, and he went straight for Casey. The guy was only about five-nine, so Casey stood up and stood straight, went for intimidating. "Major Casey?" the sergeant said. The kid next to him couldn't have been much more than nineteen and looked suitably cowed by Casey's scowl.

"Yeah?"

"Sir, we're here to—."

Casey cut him off. "Let's take this outside, Sergeant."

He walked slightly ahead and between the two Marines. When they were outside, he stopped. "Sir, we're here to take you into custody," the sergeant told him. Casey noted that he didn't say he was being arrested. He also checked the smart-alec instinct that made him want to ask _and whose army?_ The guy had a job to do, and Casey was willing to bet he'd never been pulled from embassy duty to do something like this before.

"Let's go," Casey said agreeably. He wasn't going to fight this. Sooner or later he would be talking to Beckman, and, in the meantime, he wasn't going to make trouble for a noncom doing his job.

They took him to the embassy, and from there he was escorted to the local intelligence officer. Casey knew the man across the desk from him, and this time it was a friend. They shook hands, and Michael Tinsley dismissed the Marines with thanks. As he gestured for Casey to take a seat, Mike resumed his own. "You've caused a lot of trouble, Casey."

"Not the first time," he returned.

"Beckman says you're AWOL." Mike raised a brow.

He shrugged. "There's a first time for everything after all," Casey said easily. Truthfully, he was uncomfortable with all this. He had always done his job, rarely questioned his orders, but this time he felt betrayed by his superiors.

Mike apparently expected him to say more, but Casey didn't. Instead, he lifted an ankle on to the opposite knee, and folded his hands over his abdomen. He stared placidly back at the other man. Mike finally sighed and picked up the phone. "He's here," Casey heard him tell whoever was on the other end. He imagined it was Beckman. "Yes, ma'am," Mike said and hung up.

For a second, Casey thought the General had actually come to Ottawa after him. Tinsley, though, stood and gestured for Casey to follow him. He was led to a communications room, and Casey was dismayed to realize it was going to be the next best thing to a face-to-face dressing down. Tinsley made the connection to Beckman and then, tactfully, left the room.

He could tell Beckman was pissed. She usually looked unhappy, but she was unmistakably furious. "Major Casey," she ground out, "you had orders to catch a plane for deployment to Afghanistan. Why are you still in Ottawa, and why did I have to send Marines to get you?"

Casey had planned to take his dressing down and then go when she had him escorted to the airport. Instead, he resisted. Riah had occasionally sniped that she had rarely had a choice in her life, that if her godfather wasn't pulling the strings she danced to then her father was. He suddenly knew the feeling. "General," he began calmly, "may I ask why I was never informed that Mariah was pregnant or that she had miscarried?"

He couldn't be sure, vagaries of monitors and such being what they were, but the General seemed to blanch. "That's irrelevant, Major," she snapped.

"On the contrary, General," he returned, and he let a little of his own anger creep into his voice. "It's completely relevant to the matter at hand."

She leaned forward and folded her hands on her blotter. "It happened two months ago, Major, and you were inaccessible. Be that as it may, you are AWOL, you have disobeyed orders, and I would like to know why I should not have you court-martialed forthwith."

Casey ground his teeth. "With all due respect, General," he began, but she cut him off.

"Major, I would suggest you _not_ pursue this line of discussion."

He heard the steel in her voice, and he was about to override his desire to preserve his job when her adjutant handed her something. He let her read it, tried to rein his temper in, and decided he would do what he was told like the good little major he had always been. He had, after all, borrowed time that was not his.

Beckman frowned at the paper and nodded to the adjutant before dismissing him. She looked even angrier when she turned her attention back to Casey. "V. H. Adderly just called. Apparently, your services are still required by ISI, Major. He says that you have not yet completed your duties as evaluator. He will arrange for you to meet with the teams involved so that you can share your observations with them." She picked up the paper once more. "He suggests day after tomorrow. I will let him know that is acceptable and arrange to have you escorted to meet your flight."

The General gave him one last steely-eyed look and disconnected.

Tinsley was on the phone again when Casey walked back through. When he hung up, he gave Casey a curious look. "I see you're still one lucky bastard."

He grunted, and Tinsley told him he was free to go.

Adderly's driver was outside, and he opened the back of the car. Casey stepped inside. Neither of the MPs had been in sight as he left the building. The driver returned him to the hospital, and when he reached the ICU waiting room, he found V. H. waiting for him.

"They moved Mariah while you were gone," he said, and he gestured for Casey to go with him. As they walked down the corridor to the elevator, he told Casey, "Diane's furious, and I doubt I can keep you here any longer." Riah's father gave him a sidelong look, and his mouth hooked up. "Unless you want to defect."

Casey snorted. "Whoever heard of an American defecting to Canada?"

V. H. grinned. "You're old enough to remember Vietnam."

"That was desertion," he growled. He knew the other man was joking, but it was no joke to Casey. He would not desert his country, not even for Riah.

He spent as much time as he could with her over the next two days, but she was no more lucid than she had been in ICU. He spent one afternoon at ISI answering questions about how he came to be the evaluator on Riah's training mission, what he saw, and his relationship with Riah. He nearly refused to answer the last set of questions until he remembered Riah's mike had still been working, and the recordings would reveal what he and she had said to one another. He told them that he and Riah worked together, lived together, and refused to tell them more. He explained he had not known Riah would be part of the exercise when he was told he was to evaluate it. He suspected the panel didn't believe him, knew he wouldn't in their circumstances, and wondered why his relationship with Riah was remotely pertinent to what had happened.

His frustration grew as his time shortened, and when he visited Riah before the MPs were due to collect him, he found her as doped up as she had been every other time he had seen her. He wanted—no, needed—to talk to her, but he wouldn't do it this way.

After they had yet another tangled conversation where she still didn't realize he was actually there, he leaned in and kissed her. "I have to go," he whispered. He hoped like hell she didn't ask him to stay.

"Be safe," she said faintly, "wherever you are."

Casey frowned down at her. _What did that mean?_ He dismissed it as the drugs talking. He had almost never said goodbye to anyone other than his family, and he didn't know if he could do it. He had promised Emma, though. "Bye, Riah," he choked out.

She didn't answer this time, and he pressed his lips to her forehead and straightened up. When he left her room, Emma looked considerably less hostile. She put her arms around him and said, "Thanks." He returned her hug awkwardly.

They rejoined Riah's parents. "Diane called," V. H. said. "You're leaving as soon as you finish the debriefing."

Ariel said nothing, and Casey figured that was better than her usual sniping remarks, though he had been uncharacteristically spared those the last several days. He nodded to her, and Emma gave him a brief smile. He nodded to her as well before walking away with V. H.

Casey met Riah's team in one of the classrooms at the training facility after he'd finished with the negotiating team. When he walked in, they sat there laughing, waiting for him. It pissed him off, especially since Riah was still semi-lucid in a hospital bed, so he scowled when he entered, carrying the clipboard with his notes. They shut up when he stepped to the front of the room. Someone had put the maps and the floor plans on the wall at the front of the room.

He looked around, spotted where Faraday's friend Parker was, and made note of the way the man sprawled in his chair. The others at least sat like humans. It was Parker he would give special attention to, not least because he had been one of the two who ignored Riah's direct order and started the sequence that led to the mission failure.

The man who had designed the training scenario and overseen it called them to order, apologized for the delay in the debriefing, and gave them a cautious update on Riah's condition. Parker remained sprawled and inattentive, but at least the others were listening. Casey was introduced as the evaluator, and he stepped up. There were a few of them who recognized the name, he noticed, and that was a little gratifying. He started with the chatter. Parker made faces like a six year old as Casey noted the frequency with which the team was off task and talking. He pointed out that they were distracted during this time, neither listening nor concentrating on what was going on with the mission. Parker snorted and said, "We knew what we were doing."

Casey stared him down. He moved on to the orders they disobeyed and the consequences of those decisions. Parker once again made a comment, and then the man took it one step too far: "Adderly didn't know what she was doing."

He rounded on the man. "Adderly was getting the job done. Frankly, she was about the only professional out there."

Parker's, "Teacher's pet," earned him a couple of chuckles, and Casey calmly and with lethal speed drew a weapon and shot the man in the chest. It had only been a tranq dart, and a mildly dosed one at that. Riah would never have forgiven him for killing the man, but it felt good to shoot him, even if the result was neither deadly nor put the man out completely.

There was no question he had their undivided attention as he reholstered the tranq gun. He started to deconstruct the assault on the terrorists, but Parker said incredulously, "You shot me!" Casey did it again, basically for the hell of it, all the while continuing to detail errors and miscalculations, and he dinged the absent Riah a few times. While much of the debacle had not been her fault, she had made a mistake or two, especially toward the end.

Even though the darts had fairly mild doses, he was a little impressed Parker was still awake enough to say with some venom, "Fucking American prick! You _shot_ me!" Casey did it a third time, still talking about the botched mission. He didn't miss a beat, and it felt good to nail the little bastard again.

He was losing the others, though, as their eyes darted back and forth between him and Parker, waiting to see what Parker would do, waiting to see if Casey would shoot him again. Casey, for his part, wondered if he should risk a head shot with the next dart—he was positive there would be a next dart—or go for the chest again. There were pros and cons, and he'd never shot anyone in the head with one of these before.

Might be interesting to see what happened.

Casey started to talk about their individual performances. He'd had to ask V.H. for names, and he'd been provided with photographs which he had attached to his notes to help him identify them. When he got to the third man on his list, the woman seated next to him asked, "Sir, is Parker going to be alright?"

It was easy for him to ignore her question, but then Parker slurred, "I'm dying here." Casey nailed him in the chest again.

He stepped over to Parker, who slumped over the table before him, and held the man's head up by his hair. He leaned down and used the soft, vicious voice that made his junior officers quake. "One of these days, that mouth of yours will get you killed. Shut it. Listen for a change. Do what your team leader tells you. You might live another day. For now, you're going to sleep about fourteen to twenty hours." He dropped the man's head and had a bit of satisfaction at the thump his skull made when it came into contact with the desk in front of him.

Casey finished the debriefing and with the trainer discussed with the still alert members of the tactical team what to do next time, other ways they could have handled the mission, and then they dismissed them. He watched V. H. enter the room. He figured he was about to be in trouble for shooting Parker, but he didn't much care. Adderly wasn't his boss, and he was soon out of there.

V.H. wore a grin when he reached him and the trainer. "Why didn't I think of shooting him?" He looked over at where Parker slumped unconscious on the table.

The trainer laughed. "I think that crowd will be too frightened to talk in future, and Parker's always been a worthless fuck." He eyed Casey. "Mind if I take a look at that?"

Casey handed it over, and they talked about the gun and the darts a few minutes. When the trainer gave it back, Casey holstered it and shook the man's hand. The man picked Parker up in a fireman's lift and left Casey and Adderly alone.

"You shot one of my operatives—multiple times."

"He deserved it."

"I didn't say he didn't." V. H. sat on the table and looked at Casey. "When are you leaving?"

Casey shrugged. He had a message on his phone from Beckman, but he hadn't played it yet. "As soon as you release me."

"Diane's been on the phone insisting you leave immediately." V. H. looked at him. "I can keep you here if you want."

He was tempted, but there was no way around the MPs who dogged his steps. Beckman would know he'd done the debriefing and expect him to be on the first plane out. He suspected the MPs had orders to see that he was. He met V. H.'s eyes. "I don't think you can," he said quietly as the day's two MPs appeared at the back of the room.

V. H. looked over his shoulder at them before turning back to Casey. He sighed. "No, I guess not—unless I press charges for shooting my operative, and even that would only delay the inevitable." He raised his brows in question. "Your boss is determined to get you off to wherever she's sending you." Casey was tempted to take the chance he dangled before him, tempted to let Adderly arrest him and stay a while longer while the Canadians bickered with Beckman over him, but he was afraid Beckman would just cut her losses and fire him. He shook his head at V. H. regretfully, and the other man gestured for Casey to go ahead and fell into step beside him. "If you don't hear from me, she's alright."

Casey nodded. He stopped just out of earshot of the MPs. "I want to know—no more games—if anything happens to her." He handed the other man a business card with nothing but his personal number typed on its white surface. "Anything. Even if it's only a stubbed toe."

The other man looked like he was about to say something, but then he visibly changed his mind. He held out his hand and shook Casey's. "Don't get yourself killed—for her sake."

He snorted. "Don't let her get killed." He walked toward the MPs alone, and when they were on their way, stared unseeing out the car that took him to the airport.


	9. Chapter 9

**Ghosts That Haunt—9**

There finally came a time when she woke up and knew she was, for lack of a better word, sober. Mariah looked around in the dim light and identified her location as hospital, but she couldn't at first think what had brought her there. She remembered the training exercise but little else. As she came more fully awake, she remembered her failure in command, and then she recognized the throbbing pain in her back and chest for what it was. She had been shot. She remembered asking Faraday to come down, she remembered removing her vest, and she remembered hitting the pavement.

The pain grew, and she finally gave in and hit the call button for the nurse. It didn't take long for one to arrive, and she told the woman in yellow scrubs she hurt—a lot. The nurse asked her a series of questions, and then she left to get a doctor. That took a little longer, and Mariah wished they would hurry.

When the doctor came, he was a tall, thin, colorless man who made Mariah inexplicably think of a mortician. Mariah submitted to questions, lame jokes, and an examination. She was told she was very lucky, and as she listened to the doctor explain the damage the bullet had done, she was relieved that ISI kept a good medical team on hand during exercises. She was sternly told how very close to bleeding to death she had come. He so intimidated her with his lecture she nearly promised to bleed slower next time. The doctor had the nurse administer a painkiller. He told Mariah that over the next several days they would wean her off the narcotics and on to other drugs and see how she did. She nodded.

Alone once more, she tried to sort through the weird dreams, tried to figure out what was real and what was not. She was pretty sure her parents had been real. She thought Emma was as well. John had to be a complete hallucination, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.

She stayed awake, listened to the sounds of the hospital, and thought. She heard steps enter the room and turned her head to see her father. She wondered if he would yell at her yet. He bent and kissed her forehead before taking the chair beside her bed. "When I got here a little while ago," he said, "they told me you were finally alert."

Mariah gave him a slight smile. "You can tell Digger Cobb that you sure as hell do hear the shot that hits you."

Her father laughed. "Tell him yourself," he offered with a grin, "though I believe he always maintained it was the one that killed you that you wouldn't hear." She watched her father's face blanch, sober, but then he regrouped. "You didn't follow rules, Mariah, and that nearly killed you. What possessed you to remove your vest?"

He wasn't yelling, she reminded herself. "I was sweltering out there on the pavement, covered head to foot in heavy black and several pounds of gear, in full sun, on a nearly record heat day. The exercise was over, and I took it off to get a little relief."

"You had a hostile sniper, fully armed and in position, and you took your vest off."

She closed her eyes a minute. As she frequently did, she wondered how much of this was boss and how much was father. "He shouldn't have had live ammo, Dad."

"Shouldn't have, but did," he said, his brows drawn down. "Mariah, all he had to do was come down. He was going to finish second, and Thompson didn't want the anti-terrorist slot. It was Faraday's for the asking. You made two errors serious enough to knock you out of the top slot—and those were before you failed to follow procedure and removed your vest." Her father breathed in deeply and then slowly released it. "He charged favoritism, and there's evidence you did get some."

There was no point in challenging that, so she didn't. She had been aware that at least one instructor was making things easy on her, but that had meant he had had to loosen standards for them all.

"On the other hand," he continued, "there's also some evidence you faced some prejudice for the same reason." She nodded. "There will be an investigation, and, unfortunately, it's going to be much broader than just the shooting."

Mariah closed her eyes. Her father had narrowly escaped Gray Laurance's whispering campaign, and now she might be the final straw that brought him down. "Will I need to resign?" she asked.

He snorted. "Probably not," he conceded, "and before you go to the dark place, neither will I. I initiated no contact with anyone on the Institute's staff other than to issue the order for the independent evaluator. As soon as the first complaints came in, I redirected any accusations related to you to another administrator for resolution. I'll be cleared, but you are going to have to answer some questions."

Nodding, she said, "Then we should probably stop talking now."

Her father agreed and then told her, "I've told Diane you won't be going back to Los Angeles for a while. She's agreed to make sure that your cover job is held until we know how this will be resolved and until we know you're up to it."

Mariah nodded again. When he covered her hand with his, she turned her hand to grip his. "I assume Faraday was arrested?"

"As soon as he hit street level," her father said, and then he tilted his head. "Why?"

"I've been lying here thinking about it. It doesn't make sense, Dad," she said. "As you said, I made two mistakes." She stopped, frowned, tried to figure out what they were, but couldn't. "I assume someone will tell me what those were?" At his nod, she continued, "He had to have known that, so why shoot me? He didn't like me, but I don't think he hated me. Not only that, but by shooting me on the training ground, surrounded by a number of ISI operatives—not to mention the Director General—he guaranteed he lost the one thing he wanted, and he got caught."

Her father sat back and studied her. "Mariah, who else could it have been?"

She had no answer for that, and she admitted as much. "I just find it hard to believe he was that stupid." She looked up at her father. "The one thing I would never call Faraday is stupid, Dad. Arrogant, yes. Ambitious, definitely. Cunning, no question. If he did this, then he didn't think it through enough to realize that after weeks of confrontation with me, he was going to be the number one suspect even if he hadn't been on the roof when it happened."

"Have you considered that he didn't plan it, that it was a crime of opportunity?" She mulled that over. "Maybe he didn't think about it until you took the vest off, Mariah."

Perhaps that was so, she acknowledged, but she figured Faraday would have loved one more chance to taunt her. She suspected he would have enjoyed poking her over her failure. "I don't think he'd take his resentment out that way, Dad. He was always smart enough to step back from taking that last step over the line with me."

"When they interview you, tell them that," he said, but Mariah could tell her father wasn't convinced.

After he was gone, she thought about it more, considered what she knew of Faraday, and she still reached the same conclusion: she simply didn't believe he would jeopardize his career by trying to kill her. From what the doctor had told her, whoever shot her had been trying to kill her—not hurt her, not scare her.

Her mother and Emma came after she finished a breakfast she largely didn't eat, and Mariah was glad to see the both of them. Her sister grinned and said, "Guess you're going to live, so I can't have all those cool clothes of yours, not to mention all the serious jewelry."

Mariah started to laugh, but it hurt too much. "You're a good five inches taller than I am, Em. What on earth makes you think my clothes would fit you?"

Her sister grinned. "I notice you didn't mention the jewelry."

"You're going to make me laugh," Mariah said, "and that's going to make me hemorrhage." Emma's face paled. "Kidding," Mariah told her, though she wasn't entirely sure.

She explained to her mother what the doctor had told her when she woke up in the early hours. Her mother told her she had heard that from her father. "Did I imagine talking to you?" she asked.

Emma looked startled, but her mother was the one who said, "We got here while you were still in surgery, Mariah. Emma and I—your father, too—were in and out when you woke."

Mariah didn't think she imagined the looks passing between her mother and sister. "I thought John was here," she said, "but I must have imagined him because that's impossible."

There was an oppressive silence, and Emma looked like she was about to confess a crime. Her mother looked shocked. "What makes you think you imagined him?"

She frowned at her mother's question. "He's gone, Mum. Beckman wouldn't call him home for me even if I died."

"Mariah—" her mother began, but a nurse came in to take her vital signs and check on her. She asked the woman if she had to continue lying flat, and the nurse helped elevate her a little.

When the nurse left, they moved on to other subjects. It wasn't until much later that she wondered what her mother had intended to say.

Mariah dozed the rest of the morning, roused for lunch, then impatiently listened to daytime talk shows. If she had to endure television, she wished there were more channels from which to choose. Finally, in frustration, she found a news channel she largely ignored. When Emma turned up in her doorway, Mariah was relieved to see the Chapters bag in her sister's hand, and she was even more glad to see the three books and two magazines inside. Her sister didn't stay long, told Mariah she had to get back to school.

Over the next few days, she slept, ate when they brought her food, and read. When her parents visited, she talked to them. The day she was finally released, she went to her father's house where she was coddled for a couple more days by her father and his housekeeper, Mrs. Munson. Her third day out of the hospital, she was driven to ISI where she sat in a conference room and answered questions about her training courses and instructors, and then, after a break, they asked her about her shooting. She repeated what she had told her father—that she wasn't convinced Faraday was the shooter. When asked, though, she had to admit she didn't know who else might have done it.

As they were about to finish, one of the panel asked her a question that threw her off balance. She was tired after nearly four hours of questions, so when she was asked how well she knew the independent evaluator who had been brought in for the training exercise, she was baffled. Finally, she admitted she didn't know who had done the evaluation.

No one told her, either, she noted.

She was mending quickly, though she still had some pain now and then. She was trying to go without the painkillers as much as possible, but she almost always gave in and took them to get to sleep at night. She was cleared to return to Los Angeles, but a part of Mariah wished they would keep her in Canada. She didn't much feel like going back to an empty apartment and people she couldn't really talk to, people for whom she had to pretend. Her father waited while she packed her things at her apartment. There was a whiskey glass in the sink, which she knew she hadn't put there, and when she went into her bedroom, she had the feeling someone had been there despite the fact nothing seemed out of place. She shook it off as paranoia, her imagination, and figured her mother, maybe Emma, had been there.

Her father nagged her on the way to the airport. She partially tuned out his list of do's and don'ts, especially since they echoed those from her doctor. He then handed her a packet, and she looked inside to find her weapon and the contact information for a doctor on NSA stationary. A separate memo from Beckman gave her the cover story to explain her extended absence and injuries—she had been mugged while visiting John. Mariah noted there was nothing about whether or not she should admit to having been shot.

It was an uncomfortable flight, even though she made it in her father's plane. She been startled that he had Isobel Gerrard go with her. Mrs. Gerrard was a legendary operative, supposedly retired now. She _was_ the textbook, Mariah knew, and she was a friend of her father's. Mariah tried not to think about what that might mean. Still, it was nice to have someone to talk to when she couldn't sleep.

When they were airborne, Mrs. Gerrard turned to face Mariah. "V. H. needs a little more information, Mariah, and this was the only way he could get it and do so without the appearance of meddling in an inquiry about his daughter."

She relaxed a bit, drew breath, and tried to hide the twinge of pain that set off. Intercepting Mrs. Gerrard's expectant look, she nodded. For the next couple of hours, she answered questions about Faraday. She talked about what had happened during the six weeks at the Institute—and she talked about her own assessment of the instructors and their treatment of her. She talked about the prep for the training exercise, about the exercise itself, and about what little she could remember about being shot. When asked, she told the other woman why she thought it wasn't Faraday.

At the end of it, Mrs. Gerrard looked at her gravely. "Mariah, they've reviewed the video recordings again and again, V. H. included. They interviewed the independent evaluator. Everyone is certain the shot came from Faraday."

She closed her eyes. "They matched the bullet to his gun?" she asked.

When the whine of the engines continued to be the only noise, Mariah opened her eyes once more. Mrs. Gerrard looked troubled. "They never found the bullet, Mariah, but his rifle had been fired, and there was live ammunition in it. Your injuries were consistent with a bullet of that caliber fired from above."

"Why does no one ask the obvious question?" Mariah asked softly.

Mrs. Gerrard looked taken aback, and Mariah waited for her to figure it out. "What _is_ the obvious question?"

"He's Canada's top sniper, one of the world's best. I was just standing there—I wasn't fidgeting or moving. Why am I not dead?" Mrs. Gerrard's mouth opened and then closed. She frowned, and then repeated the movements. Mariah watched her thoughts chase across her face, realized the other woman was so startled she wasn't wearing what Mariah used to call Operative Face, that bland, smooth, emotionless mask they all used when they had to hide something but the mind was racing out of control. She sighed. "If he wanted me dead, he should have taken the head shot. I wasn't wearing my helmet. Why wait until I removed my vest? Even if he decided to shoot me in the chest, he's killed enough men that way to know where to shoot. So why not the head shot, and why miss?"

"Faraday didn't miss, Mariah."

"I'm alive," Mariah reminded her. "Working from the apparent theory of the crime, by definition, he missed."

She was tired again, and she decided to leave Mrs. Gerrard to think through the implications of those questions and slid away into sleep.

When, Mariah woke, the plane was about to land. They were entering a smaller airport in the greater Los Angeles area, one frequented by businessmen, she was told. She had not removed her seatbelt, so she waited. When they were on the ground and the plane stopped, Mrs. Gerrard handed her the sling she had taken off when they boarded, and Mariah handed it right back. The older woman told her, "You are supposed to be a mugging victim. This gives you a reason to favor your right side, and by limiting your movement, maybe you'll keep from pulling anything loose before you're fully healed." Mariah had pulled stitches loose three times already trying to do things she shouldn't have attempted yet. "Your father suggested putting the arm and your upper body in a cast, but that seemed unnecessary."

They dealt with customs, and Mariah wondered about her firearm—not to mention whatever weaponry Isobel Gerrard had on her—but they weren't checked too thoroughly. She had the answer as to why when she looked up from where the pilot unloaded her luggage and saw Sarah Walker approach. Mrs. Gerrard stepped forward, moved to kiss Mariah's cheek, but whispered instead, "_No one_ knows what really happened—your father's orders." She nodded when the other woman stepped back and boarded the plane.

"I'll take that," Walker said smoothly when Mariah bent to pick up her bag. Since she was hurting again, she let the CIA officer get it. She followed Walker to her Porsche and eased into the passenger seat while the other woman stashed her case. When they were underway, the other woman asked casually, "Training, huh?"

Mariah nodded.

She was grateful when Walker chattered about her own refresher training mishaps. Mariah knew the tactic for what it was—girl talk leading to Mariah sharing why she was late returning to Los Angeles and wearing a sling. She closed her eyes, feigned sleep.

When she was safely inside her apartment, she noticed someone had been in and dusted at least. She wondered, despite not really being hungry, if there was anything edible in the apartment, but she assumed if they had come in and cleaned, they had probably stocked the fridge. She opened the door to an unopened bottle of milk, a new carton of eggs, fresh vegetables and other proof that if there had been any science projects growing, a hazmat team had dealt with them. She took a reusable water bottle from a cabinet, filled it with ice, then ran tap water into it before screwing the lid on it. She was about to go upstairs when Beckman's voice called her from the living room.

She stepped back to face the monitor. "You look like hell," Beckman said tartly.

"Nice to know I look as good as I feel," Mariah snapped right back.

The General was obviously taken aback, but not for long. "Your father sent me your updated medical report, Miss Adderly." Mariah waited, sure a response from her was not necessary. "Your wound was serious enough I am willing to relieve you of duty until you are more fully healed."

"I could have stayed in Canada if that was necessary," Mariah said evenly.

"True," the General said. "If you feel up to the doing the cover job, Miss Adderly, go right ahead. We'll leave the government work for a while longer, though."

The woman didn't wait to see what Mariah's response might be. Of course she hadn't been doing any real "government work" before her father had sent her for further training, so that would make little difference to Mariah's existence in Los Angeles. It did, though, beg the question of why she had been brought back.

When she returned to the Buy More, she spent a lot of time explaining the sling, and she wished she had just left it off. Emmett Milbarge, especially, went after the details. Mariah tried deflection, but he kept circling around it. He was suspicious, and by the end of her first day back, she was tempted to just remove her shirt and let him see the wound simply to have him finally shut up. He'd probably pass out, was her cranky conclusion, and she entertained it for just that reason. On her second day, Chuck put her on the desk and on the phone. She fielded a call from a customer checking on a laptop she had brought in for repair. Mariah put her on hold and pulled the work order noting the work had been done, but since it was Jeff, she knew to check before confirming that with the customer. She headed for the cage.

As she walked back—Jeff had, for once, actually done his job—she was deep in thought. Nerd Herd work didn't always challenge the brain, so she had lots of time to think through other issues. What occupied her thoughts most of the time was her shooting.

She wasn't sure why she dwelled on the nagging thought that even though it was apparent Faraday did it, she was uncomfortable with the idea. Perhaps it was because, as her father suggested on the phone the night before, she just didn't want to think about having an enemy who hated her that much. Mariah had had enemies since she was a child. The idea no longer got to her as badly as it once had; however, she continued to pick at the questions she had asked Isobel Gerrard while she walked back to the desk.

Because it was early on a Tuesday morning and Emmett Milbarge wouldn't be in for another hour, much of the Buy More staff was using the lack of customers and an assistant manager to indulge in the games they preferred to work. This morning it seemed to be a strange version of football. Mariah ignored them as best she could, but when she sprawled in the floor, hit by one of the green shirts trying to catch a lateral pass, she lay there a minute, felt wetness spread from the wound in her lower chest, and tried to assess how bad it was. The green shirt reached down to help her up, gave her a goofy smile, and said, "If you'd been facing the other way, you'd have seen it coming."

Mariah paled, and Chuck came up and asked if she was okay. "I need to go to Castle," she said softly.

Before he could answer, Morgan walked up and said, "Mariah, you're bleeding." He pointed at her right side.

She moved the sling out of the way, and saw red seeping through the bandages and her shirt. Chuck said, "You need to go to a doctor."

Mariah handed the work order to Morgan with instructions for the waiting customer, and Chuck hustled her out of the store and across to the Orange Orange. Sarah Walker took one look at them and turned the sign to closed. "I need to call my father," Mariah said as they went down the stairs.

"You need to have that looked at first," Walker returned.

Knowing she needed Walker's cooperation, she let the other woman take her to the sick bay and help her off with the sling. She unknotted her tie and removed her blouse. Walker removed the soaked bandages and shot a startled look at her when she saw the sizable exit wound. "I'll call the doctor after I talk to my father. For now, let's just get it cleaned and covered."

Thankfully, Walker did as she asked and offered to call a doctor to meet them there. Mariah agreed and slipped back into the bloody shirt. Chuck was seated at the table in the main room when they came back. Walker gestured at the equipment. "Could I have some privacy?" Walker's look was a definite no. "It's an internal ISI matter." Walker looked no more convinced. "Fine," Mariah finally sighed.

When he answered, her father immediately asked what was wrong. Mariah told him she was fine. When he asked why she was calling, she baldly said, "I was facing the wrong way."

He frowned. "Honey, are you sure you're okay?"

The skepticism was unmistakable. "Dad, I was facing the building where Faraday was. The entry wound is in my back. I was facing the wrong way." She ignored the stares from Chuck and Walker and kept her gaze locked on her father's image. "Either ISI has gotten very sloppy, or no one bothered to do a real investigation here because they thought they knew what happened."

"Mariah, he had motive."

"Dad, he had motive and opportunity, but, as I told you, he isn't stupid, and now I know he didn't do this—couldn't have done this unless you've developed ammunition that swings around to sneak up behind someone."

His face was grim. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

Mariah looked down automatically, irritated by that and his deflection. "Accident on the cover job." She breathed in and then asked for what she hadn't before. "I want the recordings of the training exercise."

"Can't do that." She was about to argue when he added, "If you're right, they will reopen the investigation. You need to tell your story without anyone being able to say you were coached or in any way assisted with your testimony."

She grimaced. "So, once more, sucks to be me."

That made her father laugh. "Sucks to be the boss's daughter."

Mariah knew her father would have found a way to get them regardless if he were the one with the seeping wound and certain the official story was wrong. Walker murmured that the doctor was there, and her father said his goodbyes. While Walker went to let the doctor in, Mariah asked for Chuck's phone; hers was in her bag at the Buy More. He gave her a funny look, but he handed it over.

She knew the number by heart, having been exiled there for years, and Dave's rumbled, mechanical greeting was oddly comforting. Greetings out of the way, she got right to the point: "Who archives footage of training exercises at the Institute?"

"We do," Dave answered. "Why?"

"You do specifically, or ISI in general does?" With Dave, it paid to clarify.

"ISI in general does."

"Which office?" Walker would be back any second, and the doctor would make her hang up to deal with the bleeding.

"Personnel," he said. "Why?"

"I need to see the footage from my exercise, Dave," she said. Prevaricating wouldn't get her anywhere, and Dave tended to sometimes reveal things he shouldn't.

"You won't get it," he said.

"Why not?"

"Everyone's talking about it, Mariah. That guy who shot you was a top recruit. They had high hopes for him, and the Anti-Terrorist Team is really angry they didn't get to hire him. Travers got the job instead, and the head of the team told Campbell he's not going to work out." Dave sucked in a deep breath. "But that's not why you won't get the recordings."

Mariah made a mental note to find out about Travers, but it was the last sentence that caught her attention. "Really?"

"It's getting more discussion than the fact you were shot."

"What is?"

"Hold on a sec," he said, and she heard a muffled conversation. "Gotta go, Mariah. Your dad's on his way down."

That meant her father had figured out she was going to pursue the recordings, and he was going to head Dave off. She wondered how quickly he would get to personnel. "Thanks, Dave."

While the CIA doctor stitched her up again, she thought it through. She didn't know who Travers was, which meant he was in one of the other courses at the Institute or had been hired from within ISI. She'd talk to Mona. It was that last, aborted bit of conversation with Dave, though, about which Mariah was inordinately curious. What had happened after she was shot to cause that kind of gossip?

The doctor told her she had pulled the exit wound open. Mariah nearly called him Dr. Obvious, but she realized she would simply be venting her frustration on him. He eyed her over his glasses a moment and asked, "How are you still alive?"

The bullet had made a large hole coming out, and that made it harder to heal. It didn't help that Mariah was right handed and tended to do things she really shouldn't, so she kept pulling it open. "Lucky, I guess," she returned.

Walker went to Large Mart to buy her a clean shirt. As they waited for her return, Chuck eyed Mariah across the table and said, "So you got shot?"

She nodded. Mrs. Gerrard had told her no one was to know what really happened, but she figured all bets were off, so she told Chuck the bare-bones facts about her shooting. "I don't remember all that much," she confessed and thought about her hallucinations about John, "but the drugs were pretty good."

"They usually are," Walker said, breezing in.

Mariah gave her a little grin. "It's the part after they quit giving them to you that's unpleasant." The doctor she'd just seen had given her more when he finished patching her up, so she wasn't feeling much pain at the moment.

She knew Chuck would tell Walker, and she knew the other woman was intelligent enough to figure most of it out on her own, so she wasn't that surprised when Beckman called that night. She was surprised that it was, apparently, only to check on her and ask if she needed to take more time off. Frankly, the General's call only increased Mariah's suspicions. There was no real reason for her to remain in Los Angeles, and yet the woman hadn't released her. Her father had to know she was largely shut out of the Intersect project, so he had no incentive for keeping her there, either. John, ostensibly the reason for her assignment, was gone, apparently permanently. It was maddening, and she was tired of waiting for something to do. She considered how she might force the issue.

In the meantime, Mariah took it easy and kept her eyes open to avoid anything else that might set her recovery back. She worked at the Buy More and rested when she got home. Ellie was frazzled and on a work schedule that meant she only saw Chuck's sister as they passed on their way to work or home. Mariah was relieved by that since Ellie would otherwise insist on seeing her injuries, and she knew the other woman would recognize a gunshot. She was even more relieved that Kavanaugh was keeping his distance.

While she gutted a desktop's CPU one afternoon, her phone rang. The number was masked. She almost ignored it, especially since she didn't give her number out to people she didn't know. She reached for it, though, since it might have to do with the ongoing investigation into her shooting.

"I thought I'd take the prettiest girl I know to dinner tonight," she heard Paul Patterson rumble in her ear.

Suddenly, she was smiling, something she couldn't remember doing in quite some time. "I'm sure she'll enjoy it," she told him easily.

His snort carried through the phone's microphone. "That would be you, Mariah," he chided. "I'm in town, and I thought since young John's safely out of the way, I'd ask you to keep me company."

Under other circumstances, she would have likely said no, but she could use the company as well, and she thought it would be nice to sit with someone who would keep the conversation light. She accepted, and he suggested a nice, quiet little restaurant with which she was familiar. She told him that was fine, and he told her what time he would pick her up.

He wore a suit when she opened the door to him. She had expected his uniform, for some reason, but she had to admit the well-cut dark suit looked good on him. Dinner was enjoyable. Paul set out to be charming, but she had a feeling his sharp gaze caught several things she would rather he didn't. He told her he was going off to England for a coalition training exercise, and Mariah thought briefly about her own mishap. He seemed to expect her to ask questions, but she didn't. She had worked in this business long enough to know there were things she couldn't be told, and she suspected American military maneuvers were one of those things. When they reached the dessert stage, he leaned back and asked her, "Have you heard from John?"

She pushed a bit of her tiramisu around her plate. "Not recently," she said.

His look was grave when she met his eyes. "Mariah, may I ask you something personal?"

The danger signals were going off in her head. She didn't answer.

"John's been like a son to me," he said. "My wife and I had no children of our own, and because of the respect I have for his father, I watched over John when he first joined the Corps. He's a good officer, but he still has a lot to learn about how to handle his personal life."

There was no question there, and Mariah had already figured the last part of that out.

"Do you love him?" he asked her.

She set her fork down carefully and folded her hands in her lap. She stared at the chocolate on the top of what was left of her dessert. She knew the answer, but she was reluctant to tell him. She knew he talked to John, and she didn't want to say anything Paul might repeat to him. Unfortunately, her thoughts slid to the baby, to the miscarriage, and she felt the tears well. "I don't think we should talk about John," she said quietly.

Paul, thankfully, moved on, mentioned he had seen her father briefly when he was in Washington recently. Mariah's head shot up at that, unaware her father had made the trip. She didn't ask, though. He asked if she would like a drink, and even though she knew she shouldn't because of the medication she still took, she agreed. They moved from the restaurant to the bar.

They continued to talk. Paul told her about his late wife, and she laughed when he told her funny stories about the other woman. It was clear he had loved her, and Mariah found herself envying the woman. "You know," he leaned in and said as she studied the bourbon in her glass, "it wasn't easy being married to me, but she and I made it work."

She lifted her glass, knew he expected her to say something, but his statement made her think of John, and she wondered if John missed her as she missed him. Her hallucination had said he did, but that had been a comforting image conjured by the drugs. "I'm sure you miss her," she said quietly.

Paul reached out and covered her hand on the bar. "Mariah, John—"

"Please don't." She looked at him then, miserable. "He's not coming back, Paul."

The General sat back, his hand still over hers, and gave her a puzzled look. "I'm sure you're mistaken."

She shook her head slowly. "All his things were removed from the apartment shortly after he left. I've only heard from him once—well, twice—and he didn't really have much to say for himself." Other than he missed her, she amended silently. She had reread that e-mail several times, but she remained convinced her father had told John enough he had felt honor-bound to contact her.

"Mariah, listen to me," he said urgently. "I saw the way John looks at you."

She closed her eyes. _Why did everyone say that to her?_

"He hasn't looked at a woman in that way in more than twenty years," he told her when she finally opened her eyes and met his. She thought fleetingly of Ilsa, but Paul continued, "He nearly blew an operation when he thought you were in jeopardy. John has always been about the job, so much so I often worried about him. He put you first, my dear, and that simply isn't like him."

"It was a cover," she blurted.

Paul gave her a gentle smile. "No, Mariah, it isn't." He cradled her hand in both of his. "I know it started that way," and she widened her eyes, wondered who had told him that, "but you and I both know it's real."

Mariah stared at him. "He doesn't love me, Paul," she told him quietly. "He likes me, he likes sleeping with me, but he doesn't love me." He was about to protest, but she stopped him. "I went into this with my eyes open. What you've seen is John being possessive. I'm his, and he doesn't share. I'm flattered you think he cares, but even I know I can't come first, that the job has to be his first priority." She grimaced then. "Not that it matters now. He's gone, reassigned, and if he does come back, I'll be sent back to Canada."

"Are you sure?" he asked, and when she nodded, he squeezed her hand. "Will you be offended if I disagree?"

Her smile felt tight, but she said, "No."

Later, as he escorted her to her door, he asked, "What happened?" She turned to face him, puzzled. "You've favored your right side all night."

"Classified," she said quietly.

He snorted. "You either got beaten up or were shot. Since I don't see any bruises, my money's on the latter."

She didn't confirm or deny, and he wore a knowing look when she finally looked at him. She unlocked the door and invited him in, but he declined. He put his hands on her upper arms and said, "I know you don't believe me, Mariah, but John loves you. I'd stake my life on it. Promise me you'll give him a chance."

_What would it hurt?_ It wasn't as if she was likely to see John privately again, and if she did, she seriously doubted they would have a heart-to-heart about their sexual relationship. She nodded, and Paul leaned in and kissed her cheek before saying good night to her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ghosts That Haunt—10**

Casey sat on the bar stool and downed another scotch. It was his fourth—fifth?—in a fairly short amount of time. How much time, he really wasn't sure. He just knew it hadn't been all that long. The alcohol blunted the ragged edges, but it did nothing to lighten his thoughts. He was angry. Angry at Beckman for having taken him from Burbank. Angry at Riah for not having told him she was pregnant. Angry at her for not having told him she'd lost the baby. Angry at V. H. for not having told him what happened to Riah. Angry at Faraday for having shot and nearly killed her. Angry at himself for not having made sure she knew he had to leave. Angry at himself for not having found a way to follow up, for not having a real conversation with her so that she could tell him she was pregnant. Angry at himself for not protecting her.

He lifted a finger at the bartender, and his empty glass disappeared, replaced by another drink. He nursed this one, aware the bartender was considering whether or not to continue serving him. He had chosen this bar—sorry, pub (damn Brits ought to speak English)—because it was a little more upscale and considerably more quiet than what his men would choose, and he really wasn't in the mood for either company or talk. He heard a sexy, throaty, female voice next to him and glanced over his shoulder at a stunning woman who took the stool to his left. After she ordered, she met his eyes.

She was just his type—tall, curvy, brunette, beautiful. She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back. The bartender sat a cosmopolitan in front of her, and Casey nearly sneered at the girly drink until he remembered she was a girl—woman. She gave him a lazy smile, one that was pure invitation. He watched her pick up her drink, and her green eyes fixed on him over the rim of the glass.

Casey turned toward her, and when she sat her drink down, she said, "Nice uniform."

He nearly looked down to see, but then he remembered. He was Major John Casey, United States Marine Corps, again, not John Casey, NSA agent posing as mild-mannered appliance salesman. "Nice dress." Almost dress would have been a better description given how little of it there was.

"Are you here alone?" she asked.

He grunted. He was just enough this side of sober to exercise a little caution. It wouldn't be the first time someone sent a pretty woman to distract a serviceman before rolling him—or worse. He often attracted the worse, it seemed.

She leaned toward him, and he got an easy look down her cleavage. It was very nice cleavage, indeed. More than what Riah had, and from the shape and hang of her, probably real—maybe. "So what's a handsome man like you doing here all alone?" she purred, and her hand landed on his thigh.

There were all kinds of ways he could answer that question, and all of them fought to get out. It had been a long time since someone had called him handsome. It had been a long time since that morning when Riah had ridden him to sexual nirvana and then left him for work. That wasn't fair, a part of his brain reminded him, but he was far enough gone that he didn't care. When the woman next to him moved her hand slowly up his thigh, he cared even less. "Getting a drink," he said, which didn't really answer the question, but he felt certain it was a good answer. He lifted his scotch and took a stiff swallow.

Her hand trailed back down his thigh and up once more, higher this time, more on the inside. She took her hand from his leg, and he nearly groaned. She lifted his left hand and looked at it. "No ring. You're single?"

Casey looked at his bare finger, watched her index finger trace over where a wedding ring would be if he were married. His body begged him to say yes, but what came out of his mouth was, "No." He started to change that, but he had a moment of clarity where he knew he had given the right answer.

If she had been there, he suspected Riah would have cut the woman's hand off, and the idea made him smile.

Her green eyes widened. He suspected their color had more to do with contact lenses than nature. "Married?" He shook his head, and she smiled broadly at him. Her hand was warm where it held his, and her skin was soft. Casey had missed the softness of a woman's hand. Actually, he had missed the feel of Riah's hands. "Girlfriend?" He nodded. She made a show of looking around. "Where is she?"

"California," he said, and her smile turned seductive.

"You're a long way from home, then aren't you?" She leaned toward him, and he got another good look at her chest down her miniscule dress. He said nothing, lifted his glass and swallowed more scotch. He was willing to bet there wasn't a stitch of underwear beneath that dress. He was flooded by memories of Riah in his lap late at night on her stepfather's stoop in Chicago, of the tiny, pornographic excuses for underwear she often wore when she did wear it.

"You must be so lonely," she crooned softly, and she gave him a practiced looked.

He was lonely, and while he was tempted by what she was offering, he suddenly realized he wasn't interested in sex with a stranger. Following quickly on the heels of that thought came a vision of Riah—not as he'd last seen her in the hospital but that image of her that had kept him company all the months he had been gone, the one of her naked in his arms, the silky tangle of her hair on his pillow and those heated blue eyes of hers burning for him. He acknowledged what he really hadn't before: not only did he miss Riah, but he wanted her, not some other woman, no matter how attractive the woman was. And the woman next to him was very attractive, indeed.

He agreed he was lonely, and the woman leaned even closer, her hand back on his thigh. He grasped her wrist and moved her hand to the bar. "I don't cheat," he said gruffly.

"There's no reason she ever needs to know," she said in that low, seductive voice.

"I'll know," he said, and he gave her a level stare. God, he must be insane, he thought. All he had to do was crook a finger, and she would go with him. "I love her, and I have no intention of betraying her."

_Where had that come from? _

He cared about Riah. He was attracted to her, enjoyed sex with her, craved sex with her, even now, but he'd never thought of how he felt about her as love. And yet it was exactly the right word to describe this feeling he had for her. He loved her. He tried that out: He loved her. He lifted the remnants of his scotch, and he felt a silly grin slide his mouth up. He loved Mariah Adderly.

Who would have thought? He didn't go for dark blonde, short and kind of crazy, but God help him, she had wormed her way into his very soul. She was steady, loyal, and intelligent. She had a strength of character he admired, and even if she came unglued when faced with the darker parts of her past, she always seemed to fight her way back. She could hold her own in the trickiest of situations, and she kept him more than interested in bed. He finished his drink. He had to tell her, he thought, and he squinted at his watch and tried to do the calculations. He suddenly couldn't remember how many hours difference there were between here and Los Angeles. Ten? Eleven? Twelve? What if she was at work? Was it daylight saving time? Did that make a difference?

His thoughts crashed to a stop. The brunette's hand was back on him, but this time, that wasn't his thigh she was feeling up. "You know you want to," she said huskily near his ear.

Casey grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand away. "But I'm not going to," he said harshly.

"Major," he heard, and he knew that voice. He closed his eyes. Of all the people to catch him with a woman's hand in his crotch, General Paul Patterson was one of the last people he would want to do so.

"Sir," he said, and stood, unsteadily. Paul Patterson was in uniform as well.

General Patterson gave the brunette a hard look. "I believe you were moving on," he said to her, and she took one look at his stern, craggy face and picked up her drink and did just that. Casey wished he could leave as well, though not necessarily with the woman. He remembered an incident early in his career which had involved a woman he hadn't realized was married, and the General, then a lieutenant colonel, had nearly thrown him out of the Corps. Patterson had been about to wash his hands of then-Lieutenant Casey, but he had given him another chance. This, though not at all the same thing, reminded Casey nonetheless how close he'd come to ending his career all those years ago.

When the woman was gone, Patterson took her seat. He told the bartender he'd have what Casey was having. The bartender kindly set another glass in front of Casey when he served the General. When Patterson lifted his glass, he slid a sideways look at Casey. "You know, John, I like that pretty little girl of yours," he said and sipped his whisky. Casey recognized a warning when he heard one. "I'm glad to see that even three sheets to the wind and far from home you still have sense enough to keep it in your pants."

Casey didn't know why that chafed so much, perhaps because he knew damned well Paul Patterson more than liked his "pretty little girl." Perhaps it was because Paul wasn't his father, or perhaps it was because Casey knew how close he'd just been to not keeping it in his pants. He said nothing, though, just stared at the bottles behind the bar.

Paul lifted his whisky. "When I met your girl," he said quietly, "she didn't strike me as the type to cling. In fact, she reminded me of my late wife. Caroline was a military brat, and she knew what she was getting when she married me." He sighed. "Despite that, she wasn't always happy about what the job required. We often fought about that. She understood, though, that when she married me, all those things she didn't like were part of the life she had taken on."

Casey leaned forward, rested his forearms on the bar, and twisted his glass with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. "Riah's not like that. She knows the job."

"Well, John, there's understanding, and then there's understanding."

He turned to squint at Paul's profile. _What the hell did that mean?_

"Your Mariah seems to understand a whole hell of a lot more than you do, son." Casey was confused. As far as he knew, Paul had only met Riah the once—well, twice—and the other man seemed to know what he was thinking. "I had dinner with her just before I came over—about three weeks ago." He lifted his glass again. "Lovely girl."

Paul Patterson had had dinner with Riah. Casey had an irrational desire to punch the man. In part it was envy that he had spent time with her while Casey was coming off a grueling search of the mountains on the Afghan-Pakistan border. He longed to ask how she was, whether she was completely recovered or still struggling. Most importantly, he wondered if she had been home in Los Angeles or somewhere in Canada. He liked to think of her at home, waiting for him. If she was in Canada, his was a lost cause.

"She was favoring her right side," Paul said conversationally. "She'd obviously been injured, but she didn't say how. It seemed serious. Broken ribs, maybe."

Casey knew he was fishing for information, but that thought didn't catch up with him until he'd already said, "She was shot."

"So you've seen her?"

He nodded slowly and stared into the scotch in his glass. "I was there." His hand shook, and he sat the glass back down. He hadn't had many nightmares about what he did for a living. He rested relatively easily about that. When he did have nightmares, they were about the things that did trouble him—Kathleen, Ilsa, losing good men in battle, watching innocent civilians get slaughtered—but what happened on that ISI training mission had him waking in a cold sweat more often than he liked to admit. The dreams lacerated him. He dreamed she died, bled out before he could get to her. He dreamed she died in his arms. He dreamed that the medics hadn't been able to help her. He dreamed the surgeons couldn't save her.

And then there were the more insidious dreams, the ones where he saw her pregnant, the ones where he held their child, the ones where she was home waiting for him, heavy with child. Those were the most painful of all, and he had a moment when he thought he might cry like a little girl in the middle of an English pub and, worse, in front of the man to whom he owed his life.

"John," Paul said softly. "We all make choices, sacrifices for what we do. We do it because somewhere inside us we recognize that the few frequently sacrifice so the many can live the kind of life we believe in."

Casey nodded. That was why, he told himself, he did what he did. It was what kept him going when the American citizens he had sworn to protect acted like he was a criminal or that what he did, what he was, was somehow wrong. It kept him going when he realized his countrymen didn't care what he did or why but were unwilling to sacrifice themselves. It kept him from dwelling too much on all he had personally given up, turned his back on, to do his duty.

"I'm not sure you fully understand the choices you've made," Paul continued. He turned toward Casey. "I've watched you over the years—at least the years since you finally got your head out of your ass and decided to grow up—and one of the things that has always concerned me is your blind allegiance to duty." The General let that sink in a moment before he added, "It is possible to do one's duty and have a rewarding personal life."

"Riah put you up to this?" Casey hadn't intended that to come out as crankily as it did.

"No, John, but your girl is pretty sharp. It didn't take her long to figure out what it took me years to realize."

Casey waited for him to finish that, but he, apparently, waited in vain. He swallowed some of his scotch, but Paul still sat silently staring ahead. "Well?" Casey finally grunted.

Apparently the other man had been caught up in his thoughts. "Mariah gets who you are, John, and she doesn't want to change that. You're a very lucky man. As you said, she understands the job, but she's also willing to give you the room you need to do that job." He picked up his own glass. "I'm not sure many women would be that flexible."

"Her mother sure as hell wasn't," Casey said before he could stop himself.

Paul swallowed some scotch and nodded. "Ariel wasn't entirely to blame there, John. V. H. isn't perfect, and if he'd been in the position you were a few minutes ago, he would have taken the offer before him. Still, Ariel wasn't willing to share, and I don't think your pretty little girl is, either."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of warning?" Casey demanded, but he remembered what she had said to him that long-ago afternoon in Castle.

"No," Paul said calmly after a moment of contemplation. "No, it's a statement of fact. That little girl is head over heels in love with you, John, and if you're too stupid to see it, then you're not the man I always thought you were."

Casey felt his hands fist. Then he realized what Paul had said: Riah loved him.

He knew that, he reminded himself. She had told him as he held her and tried to staunch her blood. It did him no good, though. She was wherever she was, and he was here, in a British pub on leave from a thankless job that seemed more and more impossible. He briefly wondered if he had called her and told her he was going to spend two weeks with his team in England training with the Brits and other coalition teams if she would have come over to see him. He wondered if Beckman would have let her. Then he was right back to wondering if she had even returned to Los Angeles or if her father had kept her home in Canada.

Paul signaled for another drink. As the General waited, he said, "It doesn't have to be an either/or proposition, John. I know you were pushed into that kind of decision once before, but you can have Mariah and your career, too. I suspect it would be easier with her than any other woman you might choose. My wife, a lot of soldiers' wives, for that matter, resent what we do because it takes us away from them, uproots them again and again. Caroline loved me, though, was proud of what I did, but deep down, she didn't understand how my duty to country could take precedence sometimes. That's the way it had to be, she knew it, and because of that, I made sure that she came first as often as I could make that happen. Your girl thinks she always has to come last, and that simply isn't so. She's never going to try and stop you doing what you have to, but maybe you should think about whether or not there are times when you should put her first. It may be country, God and family, John, but sometimes family should come first."

There was another epiphany as Paul finished. That was how Bartowski saw the world. Family and friends came first with Chuck, and it was part of what made him both maddening and admirable. He put others first as a matter of course, but when push came to shove, it was his loved ones who won over duty. For Casey, it had always been the other way around. Family, friends, even, came after duty. He also heard an echo of one of the things Riah had said in the hospital while she'd been so heavily drugged she'd thought he was an hallucination: that the job always came first. It had been bitterly said, and he had wondered at that bitterness.

"She can't always come first," he said softly.

Patterson stared thoughtfully at him when Casey looked up, the silence having stretched for what seemed many minutes. "Let me ask you something, John," Patterson said. "Do you love her?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Have you told her that?"

Casey shook his head. He wasn't going to tell his old friend and mentor that he had only put that word on what he felt a few moments before the General appeared.

Paul picked up his glass. "You really should." He sipped his scotch. "And you should really try putting her first for a change. Your pretty little girl has had a lifetime of coming last—with her father, with her mother, with almost anyone who professes to care about her. If you really love her, make sure she comes first at least some of the time."

Casey woke the next morning with one hell of a hangover. It had been a long time since he'd been in such a state, and it didn't help that Paul Patterson came and personally woke him up. Before the morning was over, he was pretty sure the General was determined to make things as painful as possible for him. _Penance_, he mused.

Late in the day, Casey considered calling Riah, but he still didn't know where she was. To be honest, he was afraid to call her. What he had to say to her was probably best said in person. He wanted to see her face when he told her he loved her. Then again, if she were to reject him, it might be best to have some distance. Before he could make up his mind, he had orders from Beckman. He was leaving his men once more to do a job for her in Antwerp, and he pushed Riah to the back once more as he was briefed.

- X -

It was nearly the American Thanksgiving when she received the call from an ISI official. After having re-opened the inquiry, Faraday was cleared in her shooting. Not surprisingly, her next call was from her father, who told her the same thing. He went on to warn her that whoever had done it was still at large, and she needed to exercise caution. He also told her that two of the ISI Institute's instructors had been let go in the wake of the broader investigation. "Are you about to tell me I'm not welcome in Canada any longer?" she teased and then wished she hadn't when there was a long pause.

"I think it might be best if you stayed away," he admitted, "at least for a while."

Four days later, she saw Mick Faraday stroll into the Buy More just as she was preparing to leave. He saw her and walked over to her. "Mariah," he said, and she was relieved to not hear any hostility in his voice.

"Mick," she said, but there was an edge of suspicion in her voice.

"New boyfriend?" Lester asked, and Mariah wondered where he had appeared from.

Since he hadn't called her Adderly as he usually did, she hoped Faraday would play along. "This is my cousin Mick," she said easily, and Faraday reached out a hand. "He's here for the holiday."

"Would that be a second cousin?" Jeff asked, materializing beside his partner. "Because that makes him legal."

Mariah closed her eyes a moment and breathed. Chuck had appeared when she opened her eyes, and when she introduced Faraday as her cousin, she saw the flash face start. He gave Mariah a panicked look, and she wondered what had been in the Intersect on the other man. Jeff had engaged Faraday, and Chuck pulled her a few steps away.

"Okay, he isn't my cousin," she said softly. "Unless you're about to tell me he's Fulcrum, let's just say I'm more familiar with his service record than I ought to be."

"He's the Canadian Casey," Chuck said.

Mariah laughed. She hadn't thought about it that way, but there was a certain truth in that—as far as the service records went. "It's okay, Chuck," she reassured him, though she did admit, "but he doesn't much like me."

"So ISI has a job on?"

"Not that I'm aware of," she told him, and he relaxed. For some perverse reason, she added, "But he was just acquitted of shooting me."

For a second she thought Chuck might actually faint, he went so pale. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope," she said and then turned to rescue Faraday. "Come on, Mick, you promised me dinner." She took Faraday's arm, and he let her pull him out of the store. She dropped his arm once they were outside

"I suppose I do owe you dinner," he said reluctantly.

Mariah eyed him. "Since neither of us much likes the other, how about we make it a drink?"

They went to a bar not far away. Mariah had been there a time or two, and she was pretty certain no one from the Buy More would follow them. They took a seat at a table in the back, and both of them sat where they could see the other patrons. She ordered bourbon, he ordered a beer, and then they sat and looked at each other. Neither spoke until their drinks were set before them and the cocktail waitress had moved away. Faraday looked around. It was the kind of dive her father used to love, working-class stiffs, no fancy booze behind the bar, no microbrewed beers on the menu, and the wine list had a choice of white or red, vintage unknown. The food probably contained so much fat it would clog their arteries just to look at it. She eyed Faraday's expensive suit, wondered if it was his or if it had been issued for whatever his mission was.

"I really do owe you a drink," Faraday said at last, lifted the beer bottle for a long swallow. "Your father and everyone else were willing to leave me to rot, but he tells me you argued that I couldn't have done it."

"Don't expect me to be happy about saving your ass."

He stared at her, and she stared back. She was never going to like him, she knew, and she supposed she ought to be glad she was unlikely to ever have to work with him. "You could have taken your revenge and not said anything."

"Not how I operate." She had been tempted to let it go, but she had a strong sense of justice, and that had kept her prodding them to reexamine the facts. "I take it you're headed off on assignment?"

He eyed her a moment. "Indonesia."

Mariah nodded. "Anti-Terrorist Team?" Faraday grinned but said nothing. His expression said it for him. "Congratulations," she told him sincerely.

"You didn't want it?"

She could tell he was surprised by that. "Didn't matter if I did," she said. "I was never going to get that slot."

"Parker said you ended sixth in the class."

"Two fatal errors during the training exercise." She shrugged. "I got a rather interesting reprimand with the notes from whomever they had evaluate the exercise." She had, too. It came from the exercise supervisor, but there had been three paragraphs that were obviously quoted from the evaluator's report.

"You're kidding, right?"

Mariah could tell he didn't believe her, but she wasn't sure which part he found incredulous. "I can show you the documents," she offered.

He took a long pull on his beer. "Adderly, I'd like to tell you why I didn't come down when you gave the order."

Sitting back, she crossed her legs and then crossed her arms over her chest. She didn't much care, and she wasn't interested in hearing he was being a jackass. He surprised her, though.

"I watched Parker and Sontag go to the roof after you told them to go around back. I saw a strange glint across the roof from where they took up position, and when I looked through the scope, there was a guy in gear with a rifle and scope." She uncrossed her arms and frowned. "He sat there, out of sight from Parker and Sontag, didn't move, didn't say anything. When the exercise was over, though, he started creeping toward the front of the building after they went back to ground level. I stayed to see what he was going to do." Faraday took another pull of his beer. "I listened while you chewed everyone out, and I watched him take aim. I couldn't figure out which one of you he was after, but after the others left and you stayed, I figured out he was aiming at you. "

Mariah had what seemed like a dozen questions bouncing around her brain, but she wasn't certain she could get a one out.

"I wondered for a few minutes if the sadistic bastards at the Institute were running a secondary game," he said, "but then I saw there was no band on his magazine." Mariah felt herself pale. They knew they were using the simulated ammunition because the clips and magazines had green bands on the ones containing the simunition. "I had a magazine of live ammo with me, and I switched it for the blanks. You took your vest off, and he shot you. I tried to get a good shot, but he was fast, faster than anyone I've ever seen, and he was out of the line of fire before I could get a clear shot."

She studied him. "Why didn't you tell someone?" she asked.

He sighed, turned the bottle between his two hands on the table. "It was clear they were certain I had done it, and I knew they wouldn't listen because you're the director general's daughter. I'd been a real dick, so I suppose that was understandable. I figured I'd wait for them to see that the bullet didn't match my gun, thought they would be willing to hear me then." He grimaced. "I never dreamed they wouldn't find the bullet."

"I'm sorry," she said automatically, though she supposed she was. Somewhere. Somewhere really deep inside her because she was usually a good person.

Faraday shrugged again. "I also heard what happened to Parker, and I really didn't want that big son of a bitch coming after me."

Totally confused now, Mariah tried to untangle that. "What happened to Parker?"

"That Yank bastard who did the evaluation shot him—four times."

She choked on her bourbon. Faraday reached across and thumped her on the back. "He's dead?" she asked in a strangled tone. For some reason, John's face swam in her head.

"No," Faraday mused. "Hannah Ernst said he used some sort of tranquilizer darts."

John had been an hallucination. He had not been there, but she felt the blood drain out of her head. Big. American. Tranqs. She closed her eyes tightly, forced herself to let it go, to not ask.

"Everyone on the ground heard him, Adderly," he said quietly, "you, too." When she just stared at him, he continued. "Your mike was still live. The Yank was the first one to you. He begged you to stay with him. You told him you loved him."

She stifled the shiver. "I was losing consciousness and hallucinating," she said. Now she knew what Dave had been about to tell her, what all the talk he mentioned was about. It couldn't have been John, she reminded herself. It couldn't have been. He was God only knew where, and her father would have surely told her if John had been there. Probably, he would have told her. Maybe he would have told her. Surely her mother would have said something, even if it had only been to tell her what a bastard John was.

She was going into shock, she thought, dazed.

Faraday looked relieved. "I figured it was something like that, though I have to admit there have been some interesting rumors about you and an American." He finished his beer. "Then again, they mostly started with Gray Laurance, so I doubt they held much truth."

Mariah didn't know what to say, so she finished her drink. Let him think it was nonsense, she told herself, because it was easier than explaining. They didn't like each other, they would probably never like each other, but she had let him thank her for doing what was right. She didn't want to give him any information he could use against her when they were finished making nice with one another. She had no illusions that their apparent truce would last.

Faraday signaled the waitress, paid the bill, and then, when they stood in the parking lot, he told her, "Good luck, Adderly."

"You, too," she said and shook the hand he extended to her before he walked away.

She went home and collapsed on her couch, hugged her legs to her chest and stared blankly at the wall opposite her. She could remember hearing John's voice, but she had been sure she imagined that. She knew she told her mother she had imagined him, and her mother hadn't corrected her. The investigation panel had asked her how well she knew the evaluator, but they hadn't told her who it was when she admitted not knowing.

Beckman would never have let John leave his unit to evaluate a training exercise in Canada. _Never_. It had to be some other big American with a tranq gun—_had to be_. She told herself that again and again to beat back the hysteria. If she thought, even for a moment, it had been John, that he had really been there, then the other temptations would come back—the temptation to call him, the temptation to answer that e-mail he had sent her months ago, the temptation to demand Beckman tell her where he was.

Thanksgiving was a quiet holiday. Her mother and Emma came to spend it with her, and Mariah was glad to not have to celebrate it with Chuck and Ellie. She took comfort in having members of her family with her, in being at her mother's Malibu house, and from not having to have Ellie commiserate with her over John's absence. She suspected Kavanaugh would also be present at the Bartowskis', so she was glad to have a reason to decline the invitation. As it was, she was tired, and if her mother or sister thought she was unusually quiet, neither said anything. She listened to her mother talk about agreeing to do a USO show in a week or so, and Emma talked about school. When Mariah's mother asked if she would be going home for Christmas, Mariah shook her head. Beckman had already told her she would have Chuck duty then.

She existed over the next several weeks, but that was it. She did the cover job, she went Christmas shopping with Ellie, and went through the motions of monitoring Chuck.

She absolutely, positively, did not wish for what she could not have. She absolutely did not dwell on might-have-been or could-have-been. She absolutely did not lie awake at night in the bed she used to share with John and remember all the nights she had spent in that bed with him. She absolutely did not replay that last training exercise in her head, did not take it apart second by second trying to get any hint that John had actually been there. That would be madness, and Mariah was not mad. Not mad at all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Ghosts that Haunt—11**

Casey would have bet money he'd never find himself in this position. But here he was. He was pretty sure this was Adderly's way of getting back at him for Riah. Then again, Beckman could be simply punishing him for not getting the distance between him and Riah she had ordered. Regardless, six days in Ariel Taylor's company was surely enough to guarantee he would be able to skip purgatory when the time came.

Of course, he probably had his own reserved seat in Hell and most likely would not die in a state of grace, which made purgatory not an option.

To be fair, though, he had to admire Ariel for what she was doing. Not many celebrities were willing to visit soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan, but here she was on her way to Baghdad for the USO. Even her band had balked. According to V. H., that was primarily because Ariel had been a target before, and they didn't want to fly into a war zone with a woman who drew trouble the way Ariel did. As a result, she had made arrangements to be backed by musicians from the various armed forces bands. Casey was part of her protection detail. That he had another assignment while he was there was not known by any of his companions.

He still didn't like Ariel Taylor, but he would give her the benefit of the doubt this time, if not for what she was doing then at least for Riah's sake. He stared at the woman across from him, and he had to admit she didn't look like the diva he was used to. For one thing, she was dressed in a simple white oxford shirt with a flak jacket over it and jeans and hiking boots instead of designer clothes. She had no makeup on, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail underneath the helmet she wore. She was three years older than he was, but she didn't look it. She could almost pass for Riah's sister rather than her mother. The only clues that she had just turned fifty were the few strands of silver in her hair and a few faint lines on her face.

She also seemed to be on her best behavior. She didn't make demands, said please and thank you, didn't brush off any of the soldiers who approached her on the base from which they had left the States or the one in Germany where they had stopped and taken on other troops. She hadn't complained about travelling by military transport, either. This woman was far more like her daughter than the woman he was used to, and he could almost like her.

After three days, he really did like this Ariel Taylor. Maybe he was unduly influenced by her obvious concern for her daughter when Riah had been shot, or maybe it was the way she had given him time with Riah while they had waited for her to recover. Whatever it was, he appreciated that she hadn't tried to ditch him or the others assigned to protect her, behavior for which she was notorious and which made drawing an assignment on her security detail a painful and sometimes career-ending experience. Mostly, it was a job given to agents whose supervisors thought they needed either punishment or humbling. This time, though, she did everything she was told to do when she was told to do it, but most of all, she mixed with the troops and seemed to take a genuine interest in them. She posed for what seemed an endless series of photographs, signed who knew how many autographs, and laughed when one of the sergeants stole a kiss. The Ariel Taylor he was used to made demands, refused to acknowledge anyone she didn't think worth cultivating, and would never have put up with that sergeant kissing her.

During her rehearsals and shows, she was easy with the musicians, some of whom were more than a little star struck. She was complimentary about their skills, polite when she needed them do something differently. Casey began to wonder if she'd undergone a personality transplant. He wondered even more, looking at her as they rode through the city in an armored vehicle back to where she was quartered. She shot him a look, and he saw amusement curve her lips. "Not what you expected, am I, Major?"

Casey snorted and looked away. No, she certainly wasn't. The last time he'd had to do this particular detail, she had tried to ditch him at every turn, verbally abused him, and been, basically, the Queen Bitch from Hell. When he thought about it, though, her attitude change had started when Riah was in the hospital in Ottawa a few months earlier. That had been the first time he'd been in her company without her sniping at him—and him sniping back. He didn't count Chicago where they had, essentially, exchanged words even though there had been no outright warfare.

When they left Iraq, he had orders to follow her to London, see that she got safely home. The real reason was that he was to check in with an agent there and hand off part of the information he had gotten from an old contact while Ariel played her last show. He would deliver the more sensitive material in person to General Beckman when he returned to the States. They moved to Ariel's private jet in Germany, and he stretched out and went to sleep during the flight. She could take that how she wished.

They deplaned, and he handed his bag to her driver. Casey was looking forward to a real shower, maybe a soak in the tub, civilian clothes, good scotch, and a fine steak dinner. He also looked forward to about ten hours of sleep before he returned to the States.

As the driver took them through traffic, Ariel said, "Thank you, Casey."

He shot her a surprised look, one brow arched. That was also out of character for Ariel. She didn't usually thank people. "Just doing my job."

She gave him a wry smile. "Not exactly. I'm well aware this isn't your usual gig. I believe this is usually your punishment." It was her turn to arch a brow. He said nothing. "What was your transgression this time?"

He grunted. "Don't make assumptions. You were a means to an end." That was more than he should have said. She had been the partner of a spy, but no matter how hard people had pried, she had never betrayed Adderly. He hoped that idea of protection would carry over to him since she seemed to like him better than she had in the past.

She nodded. "It isn't the first time," she said softly. "Listen, let me feed you tonight. It's the least I can do."

A trap yawned before him, but he couldn't quite figure out exactly what it might be. She'd been easy to get along with this time, and she was a partner in one of the best restaurants in London. _Why not?_ He decided. Maybe she really did want to thank him and not, as he feared, grill him about Riah or harangue him over her daughter. "Alright," he said cautiously.

The car glided to a stop at his hotel, and she said, "Nigel here will pick you up. Seven alright?"

He agreed, and Nigel got out to get his bags for him.

Casey sat in the tub later with a glass of single malt. He had dropped his bags, changed, made his other drop and returned to the hotel to relax. He should have told Ariel he'd find his own way there, he realized. Then he'd know what to expect. He still wasn't certain she didn't intend to ambush him over Riah, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that.

He had a suit with him, and he put it on without the tie before going downstairs to meet Nigel. Casey didn't want to sit in the back, and Nigel didn't bat an eye when he took the front passenger seat. It was quickly clear they were headed to a residential area, which Nigel confirmed when he asked. Apparently, she was bringing him to her home. Casey didn't like that one bit, but it was a little too late to complain.

After what she'd done for the troops, he supposed he could take whatever she had to say about how she felt he'd treated her daughter. He was certain she intended to dress him down for Riah, or she would have taken him somewhere public. As he followed Nigel inside, he braced himself, and then he heard Ariel call, "In here." Nigel pointed the way before retreating. She was in the kitchen, cooking. He stood in the doorway, surprised. "Probably thought I couldn't boil water," she said with a laugh. "Kitchen liquor cabinet is there," she said, pointing at a sideboard with her wooden spoon. "Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. Help yourself."

He poured a healthy measure of single malt, pleased to see she apparently still drank the same thing he did. He asked if she wanted something, but she shook her head, picked up a glass of red wine. She told him to join her, and he slid onto one of the barstools on the other side of the counter from where she worked.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything.

"Beef bourguignon," she said. "Noodles or rice?" He blinked at her a moment, not entirely sure what she asked. "Mariah prefers rice, but Emma always liked noodles better. Well, Emma did when she still ate meat."

Casey told her he didn't care, and she measured water and put rice on to cook. The smell of the bourguignon was incredible, and his mouth watered. It was easy to see where Riah got her love of cooking. He sipped his scotch and desperately hoped they wouldn't spend the night talking about Ariel's oldest daughter.

Ariel seemed to know what he was thinking, for she gave him a smile that was damned close to a smirk. She prepped what looked like fresh green beans, though where she found them in December he couldn't imagine, and said, "I love both my daughters. I've not been the best mother in the world, but if you think I'm going to pretend Mariah doesn't exist to spare your delicate feelings, you've got another think coming."

He made his fingers relax where he gripped his glass. He told himself not to say anything, not to do anything that might encourage her to start in. She took pity on him and began regaling him with a story about the very first USO show she had done, and he began to relax again.

She asked him to set the table for her and gestured for him to go to the kitchen table where the plates and cutlery rested, explained to him that the dining room seated eighteen, and she'd rather be in the kitchen. He helped her carry the food to the table, and she asked if he'd like a glass of wine or something else with his dinner. He agreed to the wine, and she retrieved a glass for him and poured some of the burgundy she'd used to cook with. He could hear Riah in his head, could hear what she had said to him after he had been startled by her cooking with a fine wine: _If it isn't worth drinking, it isn't worth cooking with._ Clearly her mother thought the same.

At first their conversation was about the food, which Casey had to acknowledge was exceptionally good. He wondered how many people knew she could cook. She once more seemed to know what he was thinking, for she told him about her Sunday dinners. He remembered, as she explained, Riah telling him this about her mother. When she was in London, Ariel told him, she cooked on Sundays for a carefully selected group of friends. She had always loved cooking, and she'd been quite pleased when Mariah had fallen in love with it as well. For a moment, her face clouded over, and she said, "I had hoped her love of cooking would keep her from following in her father's footsteps, but . . . ." She shrugged as her voice trailed off. "She would have been so much better off," she added, seemingly as an afterthought.

He was suddenly not hungry any more. He put down his fork and picked up his glass, drained the wine left in it. He agreed with her whole-heartedly. Riah's career had nearly killed her more than once. She would have been better off, and she would never have met him. As Ariel refilled his glass, he wondered if he would have been better off.

Ariel sat back and studied him. "This, by the way, is the part where we're going to talk about Mariah."

Casey shot a glare at her.

"You can look at me like that all you want, Major, but we are going to have this discussion." She was clearly determined, and he knew she was more than capable of facing him down. "As I said earlier, I love my daughter. Like any mother, I want what's best for her, and I can't say I'm very happy about how you've treated her."

He set his jaw and refused to respond.

Ariel smiled at him, but it was not a nice smile. "Ah. The strong silent type. I suppose you figure that if you sit there and say nothing, I'll give up and send you on your way." She took a sip of her wine. "You're sadly mistaken, Casey." She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, folded her arms on the table before her. "I'm not her father, and you and I have never been friends, Major. I don't intend to pull punches here, so if you choose not to defend yourself, that's alright by me." Her brow shot up, and he received her message loud and clear.

"I think I can take it," he grunted.

"Ironically, Major, I hope so," she said. She began calmly, telling him honestly what she thought of his behavior. She began with her hopes that Mariah would settle down with Gray Laurance, but, she admitted, she had been wrong about the other man and felt she owed Casey for getting Gray to show his true colors—though she wasn't happy about how, as she put it, he had used Mariah to do it. She moved on to his trip to Chicago on Riah's birthday. "That one, I can't quite figure out," she said. "Perhaps you can explain to me why, when it wasn't necessary for your cover— " He started to protest, but she held up a pre-emptive hand, palm-forward, and explained, "V. H. told me—you actually came to Chicago, took her to dinner, and bought her something she loves for a present?"

He thought about not answering her. Then he thought about giving her an answer that would insult her, something along the lines of wanting Riah to have a nice birthday for a change, but he settled for the truth: "Because I wanted to."

Ariel sat back and studied him solemnly. "That begs the question of why."

Casey looked away, studied their reflections in the dark window. "I like Riah," he said at last. "I wanted to make her happy."

"So becoming her lover and then vanishing without a single word was supposed to do what, exactly?" There was a sharp edge to her voice, and when he looked at her, her face was set in angry lines. He remained silent. He had no answer for that, and if he was going to have to defend his actions, Ariel Taylor wasn't the one to whom he needed to do so. When she realized he wouldn't answer, she added, "Not to mention leaving her pregnant."

"I didn't know, and you know that," he snapped out before he could think better of it. She raised a brow, sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. It was true, and he knew damned well Emma had told her so when Riah was shot in Ottawa a few months back. Still, he felt the color run up his face. "Not until it was too late," he amended tightly.

"Fair enough," she said grudgingly. "I confess, and I've had my rounds of guilt for it, I felt a little bit of relief when she miscarried. She was a complete mess when she found out she was pregnant, worse when she miscarried, and I've wondered if that contributed to the disaster when she went back to Canada for mandatory training." She sighed. "I suppose I owe you her life as well. V. H. says that if you hadn't gotten to her as quickly as you did, she would have likely bled out."

He went pale thinking of that day she'd been shot by a member of her own team during a training mission. He still woke in a cold sweat from nightmares where she was dead by the time he got to her, nightmares where she died in his arms. He could still hear her faint, breathy voice as he'd held her, tried to staunch her wounds, and pled with her to hold on, to stay with him: _Miss . . . you . . . . Love . . . you._ He closed his eyes and sucked in an unsteady breath.

"She thinks she hallucinated you," Ariel said in a soft, quiet voice, splashing more wine in his glass. "She thinks you weren't really there, that she somehow imagined you were."

He reached out and picked up his wineglass. It had taken a while for him to figure that out, but he'd finally realized it. "I had to be somewhere else. I couldn't stay until she was awake again."

Ariel nodded. "So V. H. told me—and I saw the MPs Diane Beckman sent after you. So what about after your assignment? You haven't seen her, you haven't called her to see how she is, you haven't, in fact, done anything."

Casey sighed. There was no easy way to say it. "It was too late."

"Excuse me?" Ariel sounded more angry than incredulous, which, given the subject, didn't particularly surprise Casey. She leaned forward and once more folded her arms on the table. "Mariah was—is—still in your apartment covering your ass, and your only answer is it's too late?"

He clamped his jaw shut. This was going nowhere, nor was it going to go anywhere. He was going to take his verbal beating from Riah's mother—God knew he deserved it—but what was done was done, and there was no way back.

"Tell me, Casey," she said after letting the silence stretch for an uncomfortably long time, "do you feel anything at all for my daughter?"

Casey swallowed, but he didn't answer. He wasn't about to hand her the information for which she fished. Yes, he did feel something for Riah, but he wasn't ready to tell her mother so.

After a long moment, she nodded and pushed back from the table. "I'll call Nigel. He'll return you to your hotel." Ariel stood and looked grimly down at him a moment. "Thank you for the last week."

He watched her go to a wall phone, listened to her tell Nigel that "Major Casey is ready to leave." When she hung up, she walked back to the table and began to gather the dirty dishes, carried them to the sink. Casey picked up his share and followed her.

The whole time they cleared the table and waited for Nigel to make his reappearance, Casey warred with himself. Finally, he set his wineglass next to the sink and quietly said, "I love her."

Ariel caught his arm before he could move away. "Then for God's sake tell her."

Nigel's return spared him having to answer. Casey thanked her for dinner, said good night, and followed the other man to the car. What he hadn't been prepared for was the man to weigh in just as they pulled up to his hotel. "Miss Mariah did not deserve what you did."

Casey had been halfway out the car when Nigel said that. He leaned down and looked in the open door. "No, she didn't."

Nigel nodded, having apparently had his say, and motioned for Casey to close the door.

Casey had trouble sleeping. It wasn't the first time in his life, and it wouldn't be the last. Around four, he finally gave up even trying. He had spent most of the night rehashing his time with Riah, dissecting and evaluating what had happened between them. The question before him was whether or not Riah would listen to him—assuming he could get up the nerve to even face her. For all he knew, she'd slam the door in his face if he went back, and he'd deserve it, too.

In the very early hours of the morning he prepared to leave England for Washington. It was nearly Christmas, and he had a meeting for the following day with General Beckman. He would be briefed on his next assignment at that time, and then he would have four days to spend with his family before shipping out. He hadn't been home for Christmas in six years, and while he had looked forward to it, he now wondered how he might dice his leave up to get in a visit to Riah. It might be weak of him, but the desire to see her was strong.

His plans changed at the last minute. He was met at the airport by an NSA agent and told he was to go to New York first. He was handed orders for a fast collection job and a new plane ticket. He would have several hours in New York to see he had the time to meet the agent who had further information for Beckman. It irritated Casey to be what V. H. had always called a mailman, but he did it, glad at least that the other agent was where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be. Having made the pickup, he strolled down Fifth Avenue rather than take a cab immediately back to the local bureau's office and then the airport. He wanted to be outside a while and kill a little time. He had stashed his bags with the local bureau before going out to the meet, and he'd have to leave enough time to swing by and get them. He finished his Christmas shopping for his family, and as he walked past Tiffany's, he paused.

A few months earlier, he had found himself briefly in Antwerp. After he'd taken the escaped Afghani warlord with Al Qaeda ties into custody and had turned him over to the local CIA bureau chief—sometimes he wished they would quit letting the CIA boys have all the interrogation fun—he had found himself at loose ends for twenty-eight hours. He'd been walking through a shopping district on his way to a restaurant he'd always liked and had seen a pair of earrings in a shop window. Despite the fact that they were diamonds, he'd bought them for Riah. The salesman had convinced him to take the matching pendant as well, and he'd carried them in his bags since. Occasionally, he would find the package and think he ought to give it to one of his sisters. Other times, he thought they would never make up for what he'd put Riah through—assuming he saw her again, that was.

Now, standing outside Tiffany's, he eyed the window display and the piece that had caught his attention: an engagement ring, platinum with an emerald cut diamond flanked by two baguettes. His lips twitched as he stood there, remembered what she had said in Banff.

Afterward, he was never really sure why he had gone inside. He was even less sure why he told the smiling saleswoman he was interested in the ring in the window. At the possibility of making that kind of sale, she was a lot more friendly than she had been when he first approached her, and as she brought him the ring, he thought this could be a very expensive way to find out Riah didn't love him. When the saleswoman handed it to him, he almost told her no thanks, told himself he should do that and leave, but then he heard himself give the woman Riah's ring size and ask if they had one that would fit her.

God must be laughing at him, he decided, when the saleswoman told him he was holding the right size. Riah had said she didn't like diamonds, and he was an idiot if he spent the kind of money what he held would probably cost for something she had already told him she wouldn't want. If he was really going to do this, he ought to look at stones he knew she liked, but he liked the ring he held. He suspected, despite her protests, Riah would as well.

Casey had never spent a lot of his pay. He paid his mortgage, but the house in Maryland was paid for as of eight months ago, not that he spent much time there anymore, and he bought the occasional car over the years. He had a moment of mourning for the Crown Vic he had let Chuck murder to save them the year before. He didn't spend a lot on clothes, especially since he had spent most of his adult life in uniform. Most of what he spent was on his personal arsenal, but even that was not that much. He could afford this, even after the dent he'd made when he bought the earrings and necklace for Riah. Before he could change his mind, he handed the ring back to the saleswoman and fished for his wallet. "I'll take it."

He felt a little faint when he saw the total on the credit card slip. He'd bought cars that cost less than this, including the murdered Crown Victoria and its replacement. He signed his name and put his credit card back in his wallet.

As he rode in the taxi to JFK, he nearly told the driver to take him back to Tiffany's so he could return the ring. He had no idea when he might see Riah again, and he had no guarantees that if he asked her she would say yes. He supposed he had more reason to expect her to shoot him on sight.

His flight to Washington was uneventful, and Beckman sent an agent to escort him. After he picked up his bags, he got in the front passenger seat of yet another dark SUV and let the other man drive him to headquarters. They talked a bit, mostly about people they knew, and when they arrived, Casey once more picked up his bags, stashed them in his office, and made his way to Beckman's.

After Casey was debriefed, he was given his orders. He stayed at his house that night. He had another series of meetings with Beckman and others who would provide support for his mission, and then he began his leave. He was due back two days after Christmas to prepare for a mission to Gaza.

He'd caught a news story about the growing unrest while he was in his London hotel, and he learned from his briefing that apparently an overture had been made by the Palestinians to the Americans through back channels. Because the U.S. supported Israel, they had been rebuffed, but an old ally had quietly gotten word to Beckman that it would be worth the NSA's time to send someone to Gaza City as soon as possible, that the Americans would find it very worthwhile to talk to them. He knew the man who had contacted them, had worked with him in the past, and, as a result, Beckman was sending him to meet the Palestinian. Casey knew it could be a trap, but if what the man hinted was true, then it would be worthwhile to hear him out.

After some debate, Casey rented a car for the nearly three-hour drive to his mother's. That way he wouldn't have to find a way to get his car home when he left for Gaza. He pulled into his mother's driveway shortly after eight p.m.

His mother was not alone. His youngest sister, Julie, was there as well. After he'd hugged both women and taken his bags upstairs, he went down to his mother's kitchen. He hadn't eaten, knowing his mother would insist on feeding him, and she sat him at the table and bustled around him. He gave his sister a hard time. She was the only one besides him who wasn't married, and he grilled her about her current boyfriend. He hadn't thought it through, though. It was just what he always did, but he had forgotten her end of it—giving back as good as she got. This time, though, he noticed she was deflecting a lot of what he said, and he suspected she'd broken up with this Dan, whoever he was, and didn't want to admit it to their mother yet.

"And what about you?" Julie asked, lifting a brow as she forked romaine out of her Caesar salad. "Been off romancing any foreign femmes fatales?"

Riah popped immediately into his head. He could feel the color run up under his skin. His voice was gruff as he stabbed at his salad and gave her a curt, "No."

Julie snorted, and he could tell she didn't believe him. "Let me guess," she taunted. "Brunette?"

He shot her a glare.

"Okay, redhead."

He amped up the glare to what Riah called his Death Glare.

Julie wasn't intimidated. "You've never really gone for blondes before, Johnny," she said with a broad grin. "This one must be different."

He turned his attention to the lasagna his mother sat in front of him and ignored her.

If he'd thought refusing to engage would dissuade his sister, he should have known better. "I'll bet she's one of those empty-headed California beach bunnies whose breast measurement is higher than her IQ. You're about the right age for a middle-aged crisis."

Casey put his fork down and said tersely, "I am not having a mid-life crisis, Julie. There's no blonde bimbo." He hadn't lied. He made it a policy not to lie to his family, even when he couldn't tell them the truth. In those cases, he simply didn't answer. As a result, they knew he had been in California, had more recently been overseas, for the job. Beyond that, they knew nothing. Riah might be blonde, but she was no bimbo. And her IQ was certainly far larger than her bra size. "Besides," he grunted, "I'm not the only one at this table old enough to be having a mid-life crisis."

"Don't know about you, Johnny," she shot back with a grin, "but I plan to be like the other women in this family and live well past eighty-two, so I think the midpoint in my life is a ways away."

Their mother decided to intervene then, "Eat. Both of you." When their mother used that tone, they knew to do as they were told.

Julie left after they finished eating, told their mother she'd be back the next day, explained to Casey that she had to work in the morning but had the afternoon off. She gave him a hug and told him it was about time he made it back for Christmas and left. He helped his mother clean the kitchen, felt a little guilty for being distracted. He couldn't help wondering what Riah was doing the next day, Christmas Eve. Was she expecting family the day after, or did she also have some time off? He hoped she'd spend Christmas day with Ellie if she was in Los Angeles alone. Ellie Bartowski generally took in strays at the holidays, as he well knew, and he knew the other woman would watch out for her.

He also wondered whether Riah would be thinking about the baby she had lost. It had been nearly four months since she miscarried. He didn't know how far along she had been when that happened since he could hardly ask without raising red flags all over the place. Her family knew she had been pregnant, but he didn't know who else had known.

"Johnny?" his mother's voice sliced sharply through his thoughts, and he realized she had said it more than once. He took the pan she held toward him and dried it, put it away, and forced himself to pay attention to his mother rather than think about a woman three thousand miles away.

Casey sat at the table a while when they had finished the dishes and policed the kitchen. His mother knew he couldn't talk about his job, but she had learned over the years what she could ask, so he told her he'd been out of the country for most of the past five months. She asked if he was going back to California, and he told her not for the foreseeable future. She frowned but said nothing. "You're different, Johnny," she said at last.

He looked up at her. His mother was different, too. She seemed to have shrunk a little since the last time he saw her. That had been a little over two years ago while he packed to leave yet again. Her snowy hair was neatly cut and styled, and she was still a good-looking woman. Like Riah, she appeared quite a bit younger than she actually was. He saw something different this time, though, saw that the years were finally beginning to catch up with her. He had noticed, too, that the iron fist was more velvet glove these days, unless she had been going easy on him because it was the first time he'd been home in a long time. He felt a little guilty for not having been around more, for not making time to visit when he had leave. "Different how?" he asked.

She tilted her head to the side. Her intelligent eyes dissected him, and for once he didn't have the urge to squirm. That look when he was younger had generally made him crack and spill everything he knew. This time, he thought, it didn't have quite the effect it used to. He wasn't sure if that was because he'd changed, as she alleged, or because she wasn't putting quite the effort into intimidating him into submission as she had before. "Just different," she said, and Casey was confused. It wasn't like her to back down from a line of inquiry, but that was what she appeared to be doing. She moved on to talk about his other two sisters and their families. She talked about his nieces and nephews, and Casey's thoughts turned again to Riah and the child she'd lost. Would it have been a boy or a girl? Would it have looked like Riah or like him—or like both of them?

He was tempted to tell his mother, tell her she might have had another grandchild to spoil rotten, but he couldn't. To tell her was to rip the scab off the wound, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. He also knew his mother well enough to know she wouldn't be satisfied until he had told her every little detail, including what he derided to Bartowski as his "lady feelings." There was nothing ladylike about what he felt for Riah, though. It was dark, deep, strong, hungry.

"Johnny?"

His mother's sharp voice called his attention back to her, and he caught the question in her gaze. He'd been in his own world again. He sat up a little straighter and vowed not to get distracted again. He pushed all thoughts of Riah and what would never be out and focused on his mother. After another hour, tiredness began to wash over him. His mother noticed and sent him off to bed.

She hadn't made many changes in his old room. His old furniture was still there, and if he opened the drawers in the dresser, he was certain he would find a few clothes from his college days, clothes he'd left when he went off to join the Marines. His bags were still on the spare twin bed. He unzipped the larger of the two and fished out pajamas. He would do what unpacking might be necessary in the morning. He unzipped the smaller one and found his shaving kit. The presents he'd brought for his family were in that bag, and he'd take them downstairs in the morning. Riah's ring was in his briefcase, and so were the earrings and necklace he'd bought months ago. He dropped the shaving kit on the pajamas and put the briefcase on his old desk. He popped the locks and opened it, lifted the ring box from inside. When he opened it, the diamonds caught the lamplight and sparkled.

He thought about what Riah had said, how they were cold, but these had fire in them, much like Riah herself. He snapped the box shut and set it on the desk. He was unlikely to have an opportunity to offer it to her. He supposed he could ship the earrings and necklace to her, maybe for her birthday. He'd think about returning the ring when he next got to New York.

Surprisingly, given how tired he was, he didn't sleep much. He couldn't get comfortable, and he kept thinking about what a mess he'd made of his personal life. He should have known better. As had been pointed out to him time and time again, men like him, men who did what he did, rarely got the opportunities other men got. Paul Patterson had tried—even Bartowski had tried—to convince him it was possible to have a woman he loved and do his job, but he couldn't. Even if he could, he had ruined his chance with the woman he wanted.

It was funny how he had only briefly thought of marrying Ilsa, but he couldn't get the idea of marrying Riah completely out of his head. Ilsa would have been better suited to him. After all, she was a hardened spy, knew what the risks were and was ruthless enough to do what needed to be done. Casey had often wondered why the softer-hearted Riah persisted in their business, especially when she had had more pain from it than joy. Not that he had found much happiness in his line of work. Satisfaction, yes, but happiness, no.

He refused to think of Kathleen.

Tomorrow—today—he'd have to see his two happily married sisters with their husbands and their children, and for the first time, he would envy them. He would be jealous that they had what he never could, what he now knew he wanted himself.

He flopped over on his other side and tried to settle in and sleep. He sometimes had holidays where he was depressed—miles from home and miles from anyone he knew and loved and unable to call and even say a quick hello—but this one was different. He ached to take his bags and get on a plane and go to her, but he couldn't disappoint his family. He hadn't seen them for a holiday in six years, after all, and Riah wasn't expecting him home as they were. _Home._ Los Angeles wasn't home, but Riah was. He sighed, determined to sleep. The coming day was Christmas Eve. Maybe he could call her late in the evening, wish her a merry Christmas, he thought as he finally started to drift off, but he was fairly certain he wouldn't.

Awake early, Casey rolled on his back and stared at the shadowed ceiling above him. It would be dawn soon. He should get up and go for a run, but he didn't feel like it. He lay there a while longer, thought about the things he had the night before and analyzed whether the past few hours had changed any of what he thought or felt. So much for the idea of sleeping on something, he thought in disgust. He was no clearer on what he wanted to do than he'd been the night before, and he was no closer to how—or even whether—to approach Riah.

Casey rolled out of bed. He could hear his mother downstairs, so he showered, dressed before he joined her in the kitchen. She had begun preparations for Christmas dinner the following day, and he sat and absorbed caffeine while she made pie crust. When she had two pumpkin pies ready and had put them in the oven, she poured herself more coffee and sat opposite him. She gave him a steely-eyed look and said, "Under other circumstances, I wouldn't rush you, Johnny, but there isn't much time, and I think you should tell me what's bothering you."

He grimaced. Trust his mother to figure out his distraction meant something was wrong. "Mother," he said, but before he could tell her he didn't want to talk about it, she reached across the scarred table and covered his hand.

"John, something's wrong, and you might as well tell me what it is." She gave him a grim look. "You know damn well I'll worm it out of you, so you might as well give in."

She would, too, he thought ruefully. He stared into his coffee cup, wondered if he could find a way to get a reprieve. After a moment, he decided he might as well get it over with. "There's . . . a girl—woman," he said softly.

His mother's mouth twitched. "There usually is," she said wryly.

"This one's different," he said. He knew she was thinking of how he had made a mess of virtually every romantic entanglement he'd ever had. He hadn't talked about women much, not since high school, anyway, especially not after Kathleen, although his mother had wormed out the story of him and Ilsa, too, after he'd thought the other woman was dead. He hadn't known Ilsa was a spy then, and for a brief moment he considered a bait and switch—feed her Ilsa as spy rather than Riah.

"How different?" she asked as she released his hand, cradled her coffee cup between her palms, and sat back.

He ran a finger along a scratch on the table's old, battered surface. He tried to figure out a way to tell her about Riah without telling her what he couldn't. "Very," he said at last. "I met her through the job." His mother, despite official policy, knew what he did for a living, but she knew not to ask too many questions. "She's the daughter of an old friend."

His mother looked grave. "How young is she, Johnny?"

Casey grimaced. "Honestly? Young enough to be my daughter." His mother looked shocked, so he added, "Riah's seventeen years younger than I am, Mom. She's twenty-nine."

"Not so young," she observed.

He shook his head. "We were living together before I went overseas." It took him a moment to look up at her because he knew she didn't approve of unmarried couples living together. She'd made that crystal clear when his oldest sister moved in with the man she eventually married while they were in college.

"I see," she said, and Casey could tell she was trying not to say anything that might make him angry or make him stop talking. "Do you mind if I ask why you aren't with her? Or why she isn't here with you?"

This was going to be the tricky part, and he wasn't looking forward to what his mother might say. "I don't think she wants to talk to me."

His mother frowned. "Surely you explained about your job," she said at last.

"It's not that simple," he said and registered his mother's surprise. "Riah thinks I left without telling her." She looked a bit confused by that, so he clarified: "A little more than five months ago." She said nothing to that, but the look she gave him spoke volumes. "I left a note for her, but she didn't get it." He stared once more at his cup and disliked how defensive he sounded. "I called her once, but there wasn't time to really talk to her since I was getting on a chopper. She knows what I do, and she seemed to take it pretty well."

"I'm hearing a really big 'but' there, Johnny."

It was a really big _but_, he knew. He decided to just get it out there and deal with his mother's wrath afterward. "She was pregnant, Mom, but she didn't tell me. She," he stopped and sucked in a ragged breath, concentrated on that scratch in the table his finger continued to trace, "she miscarried. She didn't tell me that, either. I only found out because she was nearly killed about three months ago, and her sister told me in the hospital."

"Nearly killed?" his mother squeaked faintly.

He still hadn't looked at her. He nodded, though. "Riah works for ISI." He looked up then. "That's a—"

"I know what ISI is," she said, and Casey realized he shouldn't have been surprised she had heard of the foreign agency. "So you went to see her when she was . . . ?"

"I was there when it happened," he said, and quickly explained about evaluating the training mission and how Riah had been shot by the sniper Faraday. He had to stop a minute before he could continue. "She nearly bled to death." He swallowed thickly. "I had to return to my job before she . . . . I don't think she even knew I was there. Her mother says she thinks she hallucinated me."

"Her mother."

He could tell his own mother was trying to figure out what kind of mess her son had made of his life, and he knew there were gaps in his story, knew it was coming out in a tangled mess, but there were just some things he wasn't sure he was ready to tell her. He nodded. "Her mother is Ariel Taylor."

"The singer? The one you describe—when you're trying to be polite—as a royal pain in the ass?" Casey nodded. "And you've talked to her mother but not to her?"

Nodding once more, Casey said, "They sent me as part of Ariel's protection detail when she played Iraq for the USO last week."

His mother sighed and then said, "Johnny." He reluctantly met her eyes. "Do you love this Riah?"

For a moment, he considered denying it. He'd only said it three times, none of which had been to Riah herself. It seemed wrong to keep telling other people when he hadn't told the woman herself how he felt. His mother's gaze compelled him to admit it. He nodded. "Yes. I do."

To his surprise, she snorted, smiled, and said, "Remember those words." He frowned as she stood, took his cup and poured his cold coffee down the drain before refilling his cup and hers. She set his fresh coffee in front of him and resumed her seat. "What's she like?"

This was easy, and the words poured out. He told his mother about Riah, about her intelligence, about how well she thought under pressure, about how she could be surprisingly brave, and he explained about her vulnerabilities. He found himself telling her about the darker pieces of Riah's past, about what had happened when she was seven and in vague terms about Gray Laurance and what the other man had put her through. He told his mother Riah had reasons for her fragility, but she generally won out over them. Casey didn't want his mother to think she was mentally unstable, though he had to concede that she sometimes was. He told his mother she was loyal, that when she loved, she did so unconditionally, a fact he knew from watching her relationships with her family. Suddenly self-conscious, he stopped.

His mother had an odd expression when he looked up. She gave him a small smile. "What does she look like?"

For a moment he looked for the words to describe Riah, but they failed him. He suspected his mother was trying to distract him from the things he'd just told her. He snorted. "Julie had one thing right: she's blonde." He went on to try and describe Riah, but it came out more like the sort of description he would read on an elimination order. Then he remembered the picture he'd carried with him since he left her. He told his mother he had a photograph, and she followed him upstairs. The frame had been broken the month before, but he hadn't had a chance to replace it. As a result, it was tucked between the pages of a field manual he fished out of his briefcase. He looked at it a moment, stared at Riah's face, and then handed it over to his mother.

Casey felt anxious as his mother looked at the photograph closely. She asked, "How old is this?"

He shrugged. "Six months or so."

She held the photograph out to him. "She looks very young." He nodded and took it back, slid it inside the field manual again. When he looked up, he realized his mother was reaching for the small box on the edge of the desk. He knew better than to stop her before she opened it. "Oh, Johnny." She sounded sad, and that made him even more uneasy than he'd already been over telling her about Riah. "You're serious about her, aren't you?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything.

"You need to go," she said. She looked up at him. "If you love her, you need to go and find out if she feels the same way you do, and you need to do it before it really is too late." She closed the ring box and handed it to him. "See if you can find a flight."

"This is the first Christmas I've been home—"

She cut him off. "I'm not getting any younger, and neither are you. All I've wanted is for you to be happy. I didn't raise a coward. If you love her, go. We'll survive without you." Casey started to argue, but then he realized she was giving him permission to do what he wanted to do anyway. He kissed his mother's cheek, and she hugged him tightly. "Now. See if you can still get on a plane before your leave is over."

As he waited for his laptop to boot and connect to the Internet, he tried not to think too closely about what he was doing. He'd start with commercial flights. A commercial flight meant fewer problems than pulling strings for a government transport. One thing he knew was that getting to marry Riah wasn't just a matter of his asking and her saying yes—assuming she said yes. His agency would have a few things to say, primarily because of who she was and what she did for a living. He felt a shiver race down his spine as he thought of her father and what objections he might raise. He surfed the travel sites, frowned. Finally, he found a seat on a flight leaving that night and a return flight that would get him back in time for his meeting with Beckman. He booked the seats before he could change his mind.

When he went downstairs to tell his mother, she looked over her shoulder and asked when he was leaving. He told her, and she nodded. "I called your sisters and told them you had to leave—but not why—and that we were moving Christmas up a day."

He lent her a hand in the kitchen, and when the rest of his family arrived and began asking him why he was leaving early, it was his mother who answered, told them he had an important mission. Casey refused to tell them what it was, knew he'd never hear the end of it. He didn't want to tell them because Riah could say no, and if she did, he wouldn't be able to bear it, let alone have his family do what they did best—try to make it right.

Dinner wasn't quite the leisurely affair it usually was, in part because he was leaving and in part because they were all trying to cram events that normally took a day into a handful of hours. He felt guilty for spoiling their holiday, but no one seemed to mind. Certainly the kids were happy to get to their presents earlier than they usually would. He had one bad moment not long before dinner when Julie cornered him in the hallway and demanded to know what was going on. She reminded him of Emma MacKenzie, and suddenly Casey realized he'd booked a flight to Los Angeles but Riah might not even be there. As soon as he escaped, he went up to his room and called Emma.

There was a moment after he identified himself when he was thankful Riah's sister was several hundred miles away. Once he explained why he was calling her, rapidly because he thought she might hang up on him since she sounded pissed off, Emma told him Riah was still in Los Angeles. Riah hadn't been able to get time off, she explained, and Emma didn't mince words about that. She finally thought to ask why he wanted to know. He hesitated, and that was enough for her to say, "I can't say she'll be too happy to see you because she's really, really angry about your disappearing act, so you're going to have a very hard time getting her to talk to you." She snorted. "I'm not even sure she'll let you in the door, but if she does, I think she'll forgive you if you're patient enough to let her ream you out first."

He snorted. Trust Emma to once more figure out what he was up to where her sister was concerned. "You know, Casey," she continued, "I feel like I should tell you that if you ever do anything like that to my sister again, you won't have to worry about what V. H. might do to you. You'd better worry about what I'll do to you."

"Emma," he said, "I promise I'll never willingly hurt her again."

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a grunt. "Part of me wonders how much to trust a spy's promise, but I saw you in Ottawa, and it's Christmas, so I'll take it on faith. Just tell her good bye when you finally have to go."

"I will," he promised. "Thanks, Emma."

When he hung up and left the room, two of his sisters stood outside his door with crossed arms. Julie asked, "Who's Emma?" and Jenn, his middle sister, asked, "More importantly, who's Riah?"

His mother called them down to dinner, and from that point on, they were too busy to follow up on their questions, questions he hadn't answered. Dinner took longer than usual, or maybe it was just his imagination since he was increasingly focused on the clock, and he was getting antsy. He bore it, and he felt guilty for wishing he could just leave and go to Riah. He watched his nieces and nephews open their presents, opened his own, and wished time would move faster. His mother noticed and nodded at him at last.

He stood and told them he had to leave to catch his flight. They made noises about how unfair it was, but he managed not to say anything that confirmed or denied his mother's story. He hugged the kids, shook hands with his brothers-in-law, and kissed his sisters. His mother walked him out, and after he'd put his bags in the trunk of the rental car, she reached up and hugged him before she kissed both his cheeks. "I love you, Johnny."

"I love you, too, Mother."

She hugged him again. "Now get me a daughter-in-law for Christmas."


	12. Chapter 12

This chapter probably warrants a reminder of the adults-only, please, warning. 

**Ghosts that Haunt—12**

The flight was uncomfortable, crowded with people travelling home at the last minute for the holidays. His seat was in coach, and he was crammed into it with virtually no leg room for someone of average height, which he most certainly wasn't. He probably should have played the military card and got a seat in first class.

By the time they reached Los Angeles, he was stiff, tired, and had the headache from Hell. The child behind him had pretty much shrieked the entire way. He wore his sidearm, and several times he had been tempted to use it. He'd refrained, but it had been a close call. He simply hadn't been sure who he wanted to shoot—the kid or himself. While he waited for his bags at baggage claim, he debated renting a car, but then he decided he'd just take a cab. Once he snagged his bags, he changed his mind. He knew Riah might not be happy to see him, so having a way to escape appealed to him.

If it weren't for the possibility Riah would send him out of their apartment at gunpoint, he'd have called Bartowski and asked the kid to pick him up.

Then again, Chuck would tell Riah he was coming, and he might not get a chance to even leave the airport.

Casey parked outside the apartment complex in Echo Park. He sat and stared at the mostly dark building. There were lights on here and there, but most of the residents were either gone or in bed. He thought of the nights he'd spent in bed with Riah, her soft warmth cradled against him. He'd missed her, missed that, missed the sense of peace he'd generally felt as he held her while she slipped into sleep before he followed her.

As he sat there, he realized he was still pretty damned mad at her. She'd done nothing to try and reach him, not even after she'd found out she was pregnant. Maybe she'd thought better of how she felt for him, especially after she'd miscarried. She hadn't contacted him then, either. Admittedly, he'd disappeared on her. That tended to piss women off. To make matters worse, he'd left her pregnant and alone. She might not forgive him for that, and he debated checking into a hotel for the night. He could come see her in the morning, talk to her in the cold light of day—if he talked to her at all.

He'd never been this indecisive in his life. Give him a mission, and he could easily weigh his options and decide the course to take. Present him with a chance to get the only woman he wanted back, and he couldn't decide what to do. He gave a self-deprecating laugh. It was flight or fight, he realized, and he couldn't decide which to do. There were many reasons to leave, to not do this. He was closer to fifty than he liked to admit. Riah was just shy of thirty. He had graduated from high school before she was even a year old. He was too old for her, he told himself, but then another part of him remembered she hadn't seemed to care. What he did constantly put his life in danger, and she could be collateral damage. For that matter, she had been a target most of her life, and he didn't think he could take a third strike when it came to women he cared about.

Ultimately, he was who and what he was, and he was unwilling to change that, not even for Riah. Not, he thought, watching a light in an apartment window—Showalter, tax accountant—wink out, that she had given any indication she would ask that of him. Sooner or later he'd have to hang it up. They made FBI special agents retire at fifty-seven, but he didn't have an expiration date of which he was aware—then again, he was unlikely to voluntarily retire, was more likely to be retired by the enemy.

That would leave Riah alone and vulnerable. If they had children—and for a minute he paused, chased that thought, not completely sure how he felt about that possibility—it left her not only vulnerable but with responsibilities she shouldn't have to shoulder alone. Of course, that all assumed she said yes when he asked her—if he asked her. Expensive ring from Tiffany's and his mother's expectations notwithstanding, he wasn't all together certain he had the nerve to ask Riah if she wanted to marry him. He thought about that night in Chicago, the night he'd dropped one pretense for another. He'd wanted to take her to his hotel and make love to her, but he hadn't. He'd taken her home and left her there with her family.

And that, oddly, seemed the metaphor for their relationship. He wanted, but he chose not to follow through.

Then again, that was largely the story of his adult life.

Only Casey hadn't been able to leave it at that in Chicago. It had been one of the rare times in his life when he'd had a failure of will. He'd let Dietrich's words and the scotch send him back to her, and the following morning sanity had returned. He hadn't made love to her, not completely, but he'd set them on the path to what happened later. After they had become lovers, he'd been content to stall the relationship there, and she had seemed equally content with what they had. He had known—and if he hadn't, he should have—it couldn't continue like that, and when Beckman pulled him from Mission Moron, he should have personally spoken to Riah, should have explained, but he hadn't. If he'd acted on instinct, he wondered where they would be now.

He looked at his watch. It was early morning. He'd play it by ear, he thought, and as he stepped from the car, he realized it was Christmas day. His mother used to tell him Christmas was a time of miracles, and though he'd never really believed her, he thought he might just need one.

Casey took his bags from the trunk and made his way quietly into the courtyard and to their apartment. A light was on downstairs, and Casey set his bags by the door and looked between the slats of the open blinds covering the front windows. Riah was asleep on the couch, an open book in front of her. He let himself in quietly, set his suitcases in front of the bookcase just inside the door, and closed and locked the door before he reset the alarm system. He stood and watched her, worried that she hadn't even stirred when he entered. She remained sound asleep when he crept toward her, careful not to make a sound. Nothing had changed in the apartment since he left, he noted, except for the small Christmas tree with no presents beneath it.

She looked so very young asleep, and he felt very old as he looked down at her. Perhaps he should just take his things and go, he thought again, and then he thought of facing his mother or Emma and having to explain he hadn't had the nerve to go through with it after all. She moved, and he froze, irritated that he held his breath—as if that would make a difference to whether or not she woke. She rolled over to face the back of the couch, and Casey breathed shallowly until her breathing deepened once more. He picked up her book and slipped the bookmark inside before he closed it and set it on the coffee table. He toed his shoes off and reached to turn her lamp out. The only light came from the Christmas tree as he shed his jacket and his holster before he eased himself onto the couch behind her, molded his body to hers and breathed in the lavender scent of her shampoo.

It had been so long since he'd held her like this, and once he realized she wasn't going to wake, he enjoyed the feel of her. He let her warmth seep into him.

Then he wondered if she had taken the sleeping pills, worried that she had simply settled back into him and continued sleeping. He wasn't about to try waking her to find out, though.

He must have gone to sleep, Casey realized, when he felt her move against him and he surfaced slowly. He heard her breath catch, but he remained relaxed, hoped she'd settle into sleep again, give him more time to consider what he needed to say to her, but when she moved once more and he realized she was about to roll over, he decided it was time to man up and do what he'd come to do. He moved slightly, realized one of his arms had become pinned and gone to sleep.

She rolled over then, and even in the dim light from the Christmas tree, he could see her stormy expression. "Take a wrong turn?" she bit out.

He stopped the sigh. He'd known this wouldn't be easy, but he had hoped she would meet him half way. He suspected she was about to make him work very hard to regain her trust. Not that he could blame her, he acknowledged. "No."

For a split second he saw shocked surprise flicker across her face, and then the anger flooded in behind it. He couldn't exactly read her mind, but something in her expression told him she was trying to find the ugliest thing she could say to him. He was tired still, so he tried to head her off. "Whatever's going on in that head of yours, stop it. Hear me out."

"You have nothing to say I want to hear," she hissed at him, pushing at his chest and arms to get him to release her.

Casey tightened his grip, understood that if he released her he would lose his chance. He used his larger body to hold hers against the back of the couch, watched her face as he pushed her back into the cushions. She was too angry to panic over being confined, which might work in his favor. He watched, waited, wondered if she would realize he had her trapped and whether she would then go to pieces. As a result, he saw when it dawned on her to retaliate, and he trapped her leg with his before she could do so. "Humor me," he rasped.

"You aren't giving me a choice," she said bitterly.

"No, I'm not." She tensed, struggled a few moments, but he flexed muscle, kept her in place. Finally, he felt her relax, surrender. He knew it was only temporary, knew that if he didn't find a way to explain his actions to her he would lose her, and if he lost her, he wouldn't get another chance. He weighed several approaches as he studied her face in the faint glow from the Christmas tree, and for once he wasn't sure where he should start.

Perhaps that hesitation was why she ground out, "If you have nothing to say after all, then let me up," and began to push at him again to get him to release her.

He tightened his grip. "Riah—"

"Don't call me that!" she snapped, slapped the heels of her hands on his chest and shoved at him before he could go any further.

She was angrier than he thought based on that reaction and the probable bruises she'd just given him, and that would make his job even more difficult. He sighed and said the first thing he could think of: "I'm an ass, okay?"

"You defame four-legged beasts of burden." His jaw tightened at the venom in her voice. He'd seen her angry, but he'd never heard her like this before. She wasn't finished, either. "My mother was right, you know. Men _are _somewhere lower than pond scum on the evolutionary scale."

That took him aback. Admittedly, Riah had more reason than most to dislike and distrust men, but he'd never before heard her say anything remotely that vicious or unfair. "Mariah—"

She cut him off. "I don't know why you're here, Major, but you're not welcome. What you did was worse than anything Gray Laurance or any other man ever did to me." She swallowed, floundered a second, then firmed her jaw and tore into him again. "You left me, and when I needed you, I didn't even know where you were. How dare you? And how dare you think you can just walk in here, say a few words you probably don't even mean, and I'll just forgive you!"

His own anger welled up, but Casey beat it down. No matter how much he disliked it, what she had just said was a pretty fair summary of what had happened. Where he took issue was her assertion that he didn't mean the apology he was trying to deliver or that he was in any way insincere. He held back, stopped himself from tearing into her for not having let him know she was pregnant and for not telling him she had miscarried. They could deal with his issues later. She obviously needed to have her say, needed to make her accusations, and he would simply have to let her vent her frustration and anger before they could move forward. If he fought back now, she would only retrench, hit back harder, and they wouldn't get anywhere. As a result, he made his voice as neutral as he could when he told her, "I deserved that."

"Yes," she ground out, "you do."

Her use of present tense didn't escape him, and as he opened his mouth to snap back that he wasn't the only one to blame, she seemed to retreat. The fight suddenly went out of her. It was as if she had said what she wanted, though he found it hard to believe she didn't have more accusations to throw at him. Then he noticed she looked like she was about to cry. He didn't think he could take it if she cried. The last several months might have been hard on her, but they hadn't been very easy for him, either. He watched her, watched the tiredness and the hopelessness take over, and he wanted to make it go away. He wasn't sure how, though, so he waited, and when he was certain she wouldn't say any more, he asked softly, "Are you ready to listen to me?"

She tensed again, but then screwed her eyes closed and said wearily, "Say what you have to say."

Casey felt alarmed by how defeated she sounded. He abandoned the explanation he had carefully planned during his flight and just started talking, said whatever popped into his head. "No excuses. I have no excuse at all." He shifted a little, freed a hand from behind her and cradled her face so he could lift it up where he could see her more clearly. He ran his thumb over her cheek lightly. "I don't do feelings, Riah," he said quietly. "Feelings get me in trouble every time. Feelings got me in trouble this time."

"How very circular of you."

That stung. Given the bitter vitriol in that, she wasn't ready to listen after all. He was trying to bare his soul in a way he'd never done for any woman, and she was flinging it right back at him. He gritted his teeth and tried to get his temper under control. If he couldn't, he might as well go straight to Washington and get on a plane to Gaza early. He watched her close her eyes again and listened to her breathe deeply. He thought about the night the PTSD overcame her. Casey knew she used breathing to control her emotions, so he rode it out, waited until he felt her body relax again. She opened her eyes slowly, sighed, and said, "I'll shut up and listen now."

He decided to change his approach, so he retreated a little. "You're the boss's daughter, Riah, and that means you were supposed to be off limits. You were supposed to be my cover, but then the lines started to blur." It was true, and she apparently understood because he felt her move her head a little as if she made a reluctant nod. Casey was encouraged by that. "At first, I just thought it was proximity," he explained. "We were both here, and with the cover, there couldn't be someone else. It didn't help that we were expected to be affectionate, to touch, to . . . ." He trailed off then, wondered how wise or foolish it might be to remind her of their prior intimacy. This, he thought, was why he had always avoided emotional entanglements. A minefield was easier to safely negotiate than picking his way through feelings—lady or otherwise.

While he tried to figure out what to say next, she looked at him and whispered, "To kiss."

Casey nodded, wished he had the nerve to do just that, kiss her. It had worked before, but even as he considered seeing if physical contact could say it for him, he knew he was going to have to give her the words.

He was desperately out of practice with giving a woman words.

"Maybe it was proximity at first," he said, "but after a while it was you. When you went to Chicago for your birthday, I missed you." He thought she blushed, but the light was too faint to really tell. Her face softened, and so did his voice. "I couldn't sleep without you here."

"I thought you were glad to see me go."

There was a little bit of a wobble in her voice, and he felt her hurt like a fist to the chest. He hadn't been very kind, but he hadn't understood what was really going on, what he was really feeling, when he had dumped her at LAX and left her without a word. It was time to tell her that. "I was—for about a day."

She snorted, and for some reason, the fist clenched in his chest loosened at her skepticism. "I would have thought you were glad to have the crazy person gone," she said acerbically.

One of Casey's hands smoothed her hair back from her face. He had felt exactly that, he reflected, but it hadn't taken long for that to change to something he should have been more familiar with—loneliness, a desire to see her, to talk to her. He had missed her, and he never missed anyone other than family. "That was the first clue. I worried about you. I worried that you weren't sleeping, that you weren't taking care of yourself. I worried that Laurance would turn up and you'd decide you wanted him after all. Then I talked to Emma, and I worried that you wanted MacKenzie."

Riah shifted, pulled back slightly, and frowned at him. He wished her expression was easier to read because he still wasn't exactly sure what was between her and her stepfather despite her denial of interest in the other man. "So you came to Chicago to make sure I was sleeping and that I wasn't about to elope with my stepfather?"

He gritted his teeth at her skeptical deadpan. That came uncomfortably close to why he had done it. Unfortunately, he was going to have to confess his reasons. "I went to Chicago because I wanted to see you." He cupped her cheek, could tell he needed to explain why. "I took you on a date because I wanted, just once, to pretend it was all real, that you cared about me, that I wasn't just a piece of equipment, part of the job. Half way through dinner, I knew it was a mistake."

_Well, those words were a mistake_, he thought when she recoiled and went rigid in his arms. He'd been doing relatively well until then. He caressed the cheek his hand cradled and confessed, "I didn't want to take you home again. I wanted to take you back to my hotel and make love to you."

"Why didn't you?" she whispered, and he wondered why he hadn't, because from the note in her voice, she would have said yes. She had said yes, essentially, when he made his way back to her stepfather's house. She had let him kiss her, touch her, had let him undress her and taste her, and she had been more than willing to let him fully love her. He had no doubts that she would have, but he had been the one who stopped, who drew the line.

"Because it wasn't right," he told her softly. If she took offense at that, he would have to find a way to explain that he hadn't thought through what might happen. He hadn't been prepared for her capitulation, and it would simply open the closet for the other skeleton if he had to admit he'd been afraid he would make her pregnant, that he didn't want to face her father if he did so. Casey wanted matters settled between them before they talked about her miscarriage, wanted her to know how he felt about her before they had to deal with hurt and betrayal and whatever else she felt in the wake of that—whatever else he felt as well.

He felt her relax further into him. For the first time since she woke, he thought he might succeed. As he watched her in the darkened room, he decided to fully disclose to her how he felt. Casey started again, this time with one of his personal nightmares. "The night we arrested Laurance," he told her and heard her suck in a ragged breath and go stiff at the memory, "I thought Kellett was going to kill you."

"Me, too," she said with a shiver.

He folded her closer, felt her sink into him. He circled back, though, rather than go further down that very dark memory. "When you came home from Chicago, you were distant, and it made me crazy." It had, too. He had thought things had changed when he returned to Los Angeles, but when she came back and didn't even look at him, he thought she'd changed her mind, that she didn't like him let alone want him. "I didn't know what to think," he confessed. "Then V. H. told me you asked to be recalled."

"You were angry," she said.

That, he thought, was putting it mildly. He'd been furious. He agreed with her, careful not to sound accusatory. "That night, I couldn't do it anymore," he said. "I couldn't . . . I just gave in. I needed you."

When he thought back to that night, he wondered if he'd set out to seduce her because he needed her or because he had wanted her to see she needed him.

Riah once more looked like she was going to cry, and when she squeezed her eyes closed, he kissed her forehead and then touched his lips softly to hers. He wanted to do as he had done that night, show her he still wanted her, but he wasn't sure she still wanted him. Besides, they still had things to say to one another before he clouded the issue with sex. He knew he couldn't avoid it any longer, so he got down to business, told her what he'd said to her on that one too-brief phone call and in the e-mail she'd never answered. "I left you a note. I asked Beckman to explain why I was gone. I don't know what happened to the note or why she didn't tell you." He kissed her once more, gathered his courage and said what he hadn't in either of those messages: "I've never felt like this for anyone, only for you."

They stared at one another, and he held his breath. She hadn't given him much hope so far that she still felt anything positive for him, and he was suddenly afraid. Riah looked hurt, though, and he wished she would just say something, anything, that might give him a clue what she was thinking. Until he knew whether she wanted him or wanted him to go, he couldn't formulate an argument to win her over—if he had to win her over, and the longer the silence stretched, the more he figured he did. Desperate, he breathed, "Riah, please forgive me."

She continued to study him while he waited as patiently as he could manage. Truthfully, he was surprised he hadn't dissolved into babble, anything to get her to tell him what she thought, what she felt. She had an odd expression on her face, and he tried to judge whether or not she would do as he asked and forgive him. He knew she had reason not to, but he hoped she would. He just wished she would give him something he could work with. Her expression went sad again, and he urged, "Say something."

Her breathing accelerated, and she tensed in his arms once more. "This isn't real," she said, and he could hear panic in her voice. "I'm imagining this. I drank too much at Ellie's this evening. You aren't here, and you didn't say those things—"

He stopped her as he'd done once before, with his mouth. He wasn't sure she realized it, but her flood of words gave him hope. If she was afraid, she felt something. He just hoped it was what he wanted her to feel, that she loved him just as he loved her. He nudged her mouth open, deepened the kiss, tried to put what he felt into it. When it was necessary to come up for air, he told her, "I am here, and I did say that." She shivered against him, and he kissed her below her ear in the spot he knew made her a complete puddle, and then he plunged off the cliff, whispered fervently in her ear, "I love you, Riah, and if you don't love me back, tell me now."

What he said hung there between them, and just as Casey was about to release her, let go of her, leave her, she said faintly, "I've imagined you before."

God might have been laughing when he stood in Tiffany's holding an engagement ring she might refuse, but apparently He was willing to throw Casey a bone. He just hoped the Almighty wasn't tossing him a lifeline only to send him beneath the water for the third time. If she thought she was imagining this, then it was just possible she returned his feelings. He took her mouth again, once more put what he felt into his exploration of her mouth before admitting, "Ariel told me."

For some reason, he was amused by her obvious shock and her breathless, "Okay. Now I'm sure you're an hallucination."

It wasn't funny, especially, that she thought she had made him up, but it did a lot to encourage him. "Riah," he plunged on, picking up with the reference she had made to her last hospitalization, "when that moron shot you, it scared twenty years off my life. When I got to you, you were nearly gone."

She stared up at him; her eyes widened in surprise. "You weren't there," she breathed. "You weren't there.

"I was," he assured her. "Your father, probably because he thought he could play Cupid afterward, asked me to perform an independent evaluation of a training exercise. He never told me you were going to be there. When Faraday shot you, when I reached you, I thought it was too late, that you were going to die." He dropped a kiss on her mouth, as much to reassure himself as to reassure her. "That evening in the hospital was the longest night of my life, Riah. The next few days weren't very easy, either. When you finally woke . . . ." He swallowed thickly and searched for something to prove to her he had, indeed, been there. "You said, 'This is starting to be a habit.'"

Her hand rose to his cheek, and he pressed into her palm. "I don't remember that."

"You were pretty doped up," he admitted, remembered the odd things she had said to him. It had taken him a while to understand she didn't believe she was really talking to him. "I stayed until Beckman sent two MPs after me to see I made my flight to Kabul. My bosses weren't too happy about your father demanding I finish the debriefing for the exercise just to keep me there with you a little longer, and they were even more unhappy about my delayed arrival." He'd been chewed on for a very long time, and for a moment, he had thought they would bust him back to captain—or lower.

"Is that where you've been?" He knew she hadn't asked, and in his first angry moments after he realized that, he had assumed it meant she didn't care. When he had had time to reflect, he had understood she hadn't asked because she had known she wouldn't be told. She had, after all, learned very young the concept that if you needed to know, someone would tell you. Asking didn't mean you were given answers.

He told her, "More recently Iraq, and most recently with your mother in Baghdad."

"And she's still alive?"

Casey grinned at her incredulous tone. He nodded and added, "I think I could come to like her. I think we've at least buried the hatchet."

"And not in each other?" she asked, sounding for all the world like a woman hearing someone assert that Hell had actually frozen over.

He snorted before he confirmed, "No, not in each other."

Riah shifted against him again and looked up at him. He wished he had the nerve to turn on a light so he could more clearly watch her expression. He was worried that she still hadn't said anything about what she felt or didn't feel for him. On the one hand, she hadn't said she didn't love him. On the other, she hadn't confessed that she did, and he wished she would do one or the other. She ran her hand over his cheek again, ghosted her thumb over his lower lip in a gesture he was quite familiar with since it frequently preceded her initiating sex, and asked softly, "How long are you here?"

"Two days." She still hadn't said what he wanted to hear, but Casey decided he'd just have to wait. He felt a more pressing need from her, and he was willing, for the moment, to take a physical if not an emotional desire for him. He ran a finger along her jaw, and he decided to tell her why, knew full well Beckman would have his head if she ever found out he'd told Riah where he was going. He refused to start over, if that's what they were doing, without honesty between them. "We've got two days, and then I have to report back to D.C. They're sending me to Gaza before New Year's. After that, I'll request I be reassigned here—but only if you want me." He held his breath, hoped like hell this wasn't where she told him she didn't want him after all.

He sagged, relieved, when she breathed, "I want you."

It would do for a start, he thought, taking her mouth hungrily. She tore at the buttons on his shirt, and he stripped her t-shirt and flannel pants from her before she could get his own shirt off him. God, he had missed her. He had missed the way she felt, the way she touched him. He had missed the slide of her skin against his, the taste of her. He missed the sounds she made as he touched her and the intricate battle to touch one another with hands and mouth. He nearly fell off the couch when she fumbled at his belt and he tried to make enough room to let her work. He pushed her hands away and stood long enough to get rid of the rest of his clothes before he rejoined her, rolled her beneath him and reclaimed her mouth.

Riah's hands roamed over his body, and he wondered vaguely if he should stop her before he was useless to her. For his part, he ran his mouth, his tongue over her exposed skin, found her nipple and felt a primitive pride at the keening, wanting moan that escaped her as she arched up into him. He had missed that sound, missed the way her body reacted to stimuli, and it felt so very, very good to stimulate her. She dragged his mouth back to hers, plundered it and ran her hands over his own body impatiently. She was ready for him, he was more than ready for her, and when he entered her, her hips rose to meet him. It was hard and fast and hungry, and it wasn't long before Riah flew apart and took him with her.

Casey came around enough to realize he had to be crushing her into the sofa cushions. He murmured something even he wasn't sure of and rolled off her so that his back was against the sofa's before he pulled her against him. He claimed her mouth again, more gently this time, and Riah's answering kiss was sleepy. "I like the way you apologize," she murmured, stroking a hand up his chest. "You don't happen to have anything else you need to confess?"

A grunt of a laugh escaped him. He sincerely hoped her comment meant she was going to forgive him after all. "I could probably come up with something," he admitted, pressed a kiss against her forehead as tiredness washed over him, "but I think I need a little sleep first."

He felt her mouth curve against his shoulder. "There are two perfectly good beds upstairs."

"Later," he said softly, completely aware that there were two beds upstairs but unwilling to say he was afraid she might change her mind if he had to let her go long enough to go to either of them. That, and several days with little sleep were finally catching up to him.

Casey woke up disoriented, but it didn't take him long to realize where he was. He had a moment where he regretted not moving Riah upstairs as his muscles protested when he moved to ease his cramped position. There was faint light coming in the window, and he gently rolled Riah enough away that he could easily reach her mouth. He kissed her softly, and she moved against him as she began to wake. _There it was_, he thought as he nipped his way down her throat, that hungry little moan she often made as he made love to her. Her hands began to run over his shoulders, and he started to kiss his way up the other side of her neck. She grabbed him, pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him absolutely senseless. Her naked body wrapped around his had only a little to do with that, but he certainly wasn't going to complain.

She started pushing and pulling at him. Casey knew it was in his best interest to cooperate, so he let her roll him on his back and helped her seat herself over him. He clung to her hips as she rode him, and he helped her maintain the rhythm until her muscles spasmed around him and led to his own set of spasms. Riah collapsed on top of him and made that contented little purr he had missed so much. She stretched out along him and dropped off to sleep again. Casey kissed the top of her head, thought about moving her, and then decided to just leave her as she was. There was a blanket near their feet that had covered them when he woke, and he worked it up to where he could get a hold of it and cover them again before he dropped off himself.

The next time he woke, it was because he heard the Moron and the Bearded Troll outside the open window. Bartowski and Grimes were going on about turkey, the amount of leftovers probable from the size of the turkey and the number of guests Ellie had invited, and what the possible number of sandwich combinations were from the condiments and other options available in Ellie's fridge. On the one hand, Casey was irritated to be awakened by this conversation. On the other, he had a moment of fondness due mainly to being home and due in part to having Riah naked and draped over him.

She moved restlessly, shifted her weight on him and crooked a leg so that her foot ran up his shin. He ran a hand along her spine, stroked over her skin, and when she made a faint sound, he asked, "You 'wake?"

"Do I have to be?" she mumbled, and he laughed.

"Not especially," he conceded, "but I think I'd like to trade the couch for the bed now." A few hours on his back without good support and the added weight of Riah meant his back was killing him.

She stretched, and her body rubbed against him as she yawned. "Not sure I want to move."

Someone pounded on the door, and Riah moaned. Casey was disgustingly pleased to note it was a moan of frustration. He heard Chuck's voice on the other side of the door and whispered, "Ignore him."

Riah squinted at the clock and started to slide off of him. For his part, Casey tried to impede her by rolling her toward the back of the sofa, but she simply climbed over him. "I'm late," she mumbled, stood, and searched the room. He watched her look at where their scattered clothes had landed the night before, and he watched, amused, when she finally picked up the black shirt he'd been wearing and shrugged it on, buttoned it as she walked toward the door. She looked like she had spent the night doing exactly what they had done, he noted with a pleased grin. Her hair was tousled and tangled, and when she looked over her shoulder at him as she reached his luggage, her mouth was swollen. Part of him wondered what would happen when she opened that door.

To his satisfaction, the sight of her in nothing but Casey's shirt killed whatever Chuck Bartowski had been about to say. The younger man's eyes darted over to where Casey lay on the couch. When it was apparent she intended to answer the door, Casey made sure he was covered. No need to offend Bartowski's sensibilities when she pulled open the door.

There was something oddly gratifying about the way Chuck said, "You're back!" when he saw Casey. The kid grinned at Riah. "He's back!"

She nodded and waved a hand at the room in general. Chuck stepped inside, and she shut the door behind him. Casey sat up as Chuck entered, and he could tell Bartowski wanted to ask where he'd been and what he'd been doing. Apparently he'd learned a thing or two while Casey had been gone since Bartowski didn't ask. What he said was, "Mariah said they called you back."

He nodded at the kid. "I didn't have a chance to say good bye, Chuck." There was an edge of sarcasm behind his words not least because Casey had enjoyed having a naked Riah in his arms and now she stood by the door dressed in his shirt while he remained alone on the couch. It seemed grossly unfair in Casey's book. As far as he was concerned, Chuck belonged on the other side of the door and Riah belonged right where she had been before Bartowski knocked.

"So you got to come home for the holidays?" Chuck asked.

Casey nodded once more. "I'm only here a couple of days."

Chuck's face fell at those words. "You're not coming back."

"Not just yet, Bartowski." Casey scratched absently at his chest. "I have to go back overseas for a while."

The kid gave him that incandescent smile of his and said, "So you are coming back, then?"

Casey looked at Riah. She had schooled her features so that her face was an empty blank. He hated that look. He told Chuck, watching Riah as he spoke, "If Beckman lets me." Riah, he realized still hadn't said how she felt about him and his reappearance. It occurred to him then that she might just like the sex and not him. "If Riah lets me." The facade cracked, and she gave Casey a smile every bit as sunny as Chuck's. She still had not said the words, but Casey thought he might get them out of her yet.

Chuck seemed to remember what he had come over for then. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, turning to Riah. "Ellie said to tell you that we're pushing dinner back to five so that Sarah can get back from visiting her dad—of course, Ellie doesn't know that's what she's going to do because, well, that would be a little too hard to explain—" and Casey's lips twitched. Bartowski had never mastered the short answer. As Riah looked across at him, Casey could tell she was thinking much the same thing. He tuned in to the rest of Chuck's response to hear, ". . . and, well, she said to tell you that she won't need you until about one this afternoon."

For Casey, that was good news. He had Riah to himself for a few more hours.

For her part, Riah gave Chuck a gentle smile. "Tell her I'll be there."

Chuck pursed his lips before jabbing a finger in an awkward point at Casey. He waited to see where Bartowski would go next. "Maybe you . . . and Casey . . . would . . . like to . . . would rather . . . ."

"Tell Ellie I'll come help with dinner," Riah said firmly.

"Right. I'll just, um, leave you two."

He waited until Riah had let Chuck out and closed the door behind him before he told her, "Casey would like to—would rather several things." He shoved the blanket aside and crossed the room to where she still stood beside the door. He had her against the door and used one hand to undo the buttons on his shirt. Riah clung to him, mouth, hands, arms, and when he shoved the shirt off her, she wound herself around him once more. Casey lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he fixed his mouth to hers and started up the stairs.


End file.
